M  A  D  E  L  O  N 


21 


BY 


MARY   E.  WILKINS    c?V 

AUTHOR    OF    "A    HCMBf.K    ROMANCE55 
"  JANE   FIKLD  "    KTC. 


NEW     YORK 
HARPER  &  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 

1896 


BY  MARY  E.  WILKINS. 


PEMBROKE.    A  Novel.    Illustrated.    ICmo,  Cloth, 

$1  50. 
JANE  FIELD.    A  Novel.     Illustrated.     IGmo,  Cloth, 

$1  25. 
A  HUMBLE  ROMANCE,  and  Other  Stones.    IGmo, 

Cloth,  $1  25. 

\  NEW  ENGLAND  NUN,  and  Other  Stones.    IGmo, 
*  Cloth,  $1  25. 
YOUNG  LUCRETIA,  and  Other  Stories.    Illustrated. 

Post  Svo,  Cloth,  $1  25. 
GILES  COREY,  YEOMAN.   Illustrated.   32mo,  Cloth, 

50  cents.  

Pum,i8iiEi>  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK. 


Copyright,  IS96,  by  HARPEU  &  BROTHERS. 


All  rights  reserved. 


Love  is  the  crown,  and  the  crucifixion,  of  life, 
and  proves  thereby  its  own  divinity. 


960440 


MADELQN 


CHAPTER  I 

THERE  was  a  new  snow  over  the  village.  In 
deed,  it  had  ceased  to  fall  only  at  sunset,  and  it 
was  now  eight  o'clock.  It  was  heaped  apparently 
with  the  lightness  of  foam  on  the  windward  sides 
of  the  roads,  over  the  fences  and  the  stone  walls, 
and  on  the  village  roofs.  Its  weight  was  evident 
only  on  the  branches  of  the  evergreen -trees, 
which  were  bent  low  in  their  white  shagginess, 
and  lost  their  upward  spring. 

There  were  evergreens — Norway  pines,  spruces, 
and  hemlocks — bordering  the  road  along  which 
Burr  Gordon  was  coming.  Now  and  then  he 
jostled  a  low-hanging  bough  and  shook  off  its 
load  of  snow  upon  his  shoulders.  Then  he 
walked  nearer  the  middle  of  the  street,  tramp 
ing  steadily  through  the  new  snow.  This  was 
an  old  road,  but  little  used  of  late  years,  and 
the  forest  seemed  to  be  moving  upon  it  with  the 
unnoted  swiftness  of  a  procession  endless  from 


2  MADELOK 

the   beginning   of   the   world.      In   places    the 
branches  of  the  opposite  pines  stretched  to  each 
other  like  white-draped  arms  across  the  road,  and 
slender,  snow-laden  saplings  stood  out  in  young 
•crowds?  well  in  advance  of  the  old  trees.     At 
''times  the>  i  bail,  was   no  more  than  a  cart-path 
ftliir-Qiigh;  |he;  forest;   but  it  was  a  short-cut  to 
't'he  'Hau;cville  place,  and  that  was  why  Burr  Gor 
don  went  that  way. 

Everything  was  very  still.  The  new-fallen 
snow  seemed  to  muffle  silence  itself,  and  do 
away  with  that  wide  susceptibility  to  sound 
which  affects  one  as  forcibly  as  the  crashing  of 
cannon. 

There  was  no  whisper  -of  life  from  the  village, 
which  lay  a  half-mile  back ;  no  roll  of  wheels,  or 
shout,  or  peal  of  bell.  Burr  Gordon  kept  on  in 
utter  silence  until  he  came  near  the  Hautville 
house.  Then  he  began  to  hear  music  :  the  soar 
ing  sweetness  of  a  soprano  voice,  the  rich  un 
dertone  of  a  bass,  and  the  twang  of  stringed  in 
struments. 

When  he  came  close  to  the  house  the  low 
structure  itself,  overlaid  with  snow,  and  with 
snow  clinging  to  its  gray-shingled  sides  like 
shreds  of  wool,  seemed  to  vibrate  and  pulse  and 
shake,  and  wax  fairly  sonorous  with  music,  like 
an  organ. 

Burr  Gordon  stood  still  in  the  road  and  lis 
tened.  The  constituents  of  the  concert  resolved 


MADELCW  3 

themselves  to  his  ear.  There  was  a  wonderful 
soprano,  a  tenor,  a  bass,  one  sweet  boy's  voice,  a 
bass-viol,  and  a  violin.  They  were  practising  a 
fugue.  The  soprano  rang  out  like  the  invitation 
of  an  angel, 

"  Come,  my  beloved,  haste  away, 
Cut  short  the  hours  of  thy  delay," 

above  all  the  others — even  the  shrill  boy-treble. 
Then  it  followed,  with  noblest  and  sweetest 
order,  the  bass  in — 

"Fly  like  a  youthful  hart  or  roe, 
Over  the  hills  where  the  spices  grow.'" 

The  very  breath  of  the  spices  of  Arabia  seemed 
borne  into  the  young  man's  senses  by  that  voice. 
He  saw  in  vision  the  blue  tops  of  those  delec 
table  hills  where  the  myrtle  and  the  cassia  grew; 
he  felt  within  his  limbs  the  ardent  impulse  of 
the  hart  or  roe.  He  stood  with  his  head  bent, 
listening,  until  the  music  ceased ;  the  blue  hills 
sank  suddenly  into  the  land  of  the  past,  and  all 
the  spice-plants  withered  away. 

There  was  but  a  few  minutes'  interval;  then 
there  was  a  chorus — 

"Strike  the  timbrel." 

Burr  Gordon,  listening,  heard  in  that  only  the 
great  soprano,  and  it  was  to  him  like  the  voice 


4  MADELON 

of  Miriam  of  old,  summoning  him  to  battle  and 
glory. 

But  when  that  music  ceased  he  did  not  wait 
any  longer  nor  enter  the  house,  but  stole  away 
silently.  This  time  he  travelled  the  main  road, 
which  intersected  the  old  one  at  the  Hautville 
house.  The  village  lights  shone  before  him  all 
the  way.  He  was  half-way  to  the  village  when 
he  met  his  cousin,  Lot  Gordon.  He  knew  he 
was  coming  through  the  pale  darkness  of  the 
night  some  time  before  he  was  actually  in  sight 
by  his  cough.  Lot  Gordon  had  had  for  years  a 
sharp  cough  which  afflicted  him  particularly 
when  he  walked  abroad  in  night  air.  It  carried 
as  far  as  the  yelp  of  a  dog ;  when  Burr  first  heard 
it  he  stopped  short,  and  looked  irresolutely  at 
the  thicket  beside  the  road.  He  had  a  half-im 
pulse  to  slink  in  there  among  the  snowy  bushes 
and  hide  until  his  cousin  passed  by.  Then  he 
shook  his  head  angrily  and  kept  on. 

However,  when  the  two  men  drew  near  each 
other  Burr  kept  well  to  his  side  of  the  road  and 
strode  on  rapidly,  hoping  his  cousin  might  not 
recognize  him.  But  Lot,  with  a  hoarse  laugh 
and  another  cough,  swerved  after  him  and  jostled 
him  roughly. 

"Can't  cheat  me,  Burr  Gordon," said  he. 

"  I  don't  want  to  cheat  you,'v  returned  Burr,  in 
a  surly  tone. 

"  You  can't  if  you  do.    Set  me  down  anywhere 


MADELON  5 

in  the  woods  when  there's  a  wind,  and  Fll  tell 
ye  what  the  trees  are  if  it's  so  dark  you  can't  see 
a  leaf  by  the  way  the  boughs  blow.  The  maples 
strike  out  stiff  like  dead  men's  arms,  and  the 
elms  lash  like  live  snakes,  and  the  pines  stir  all 
together  like  women.  I  can  tell  the  trees  no  mat 
ter  how  dark  'tis  by  the  way  they  move,  and  I  can 
tell  a  Gordon  by  the  swing  of  his  shoulders,  no 
matter  how  fast  he  slinks  by  on  the  other  side  in 
the  shadow.  You  don't  set  much  by  me,  Burr, 
and  I  don't  set  any  too  much  by  you,  but  we've 
got  to  swing  our  shoulders  one  way,  whether  we 
will  or  no,  because  our  father  and  our  grandfather 
did  before  us.  Good  Lord,  aren't  men  in  leading- 
strings,  no  matter  how  high  they  kick  !" 

"  I  can't  stand  here  in  the  snow  talking,"  said 
Burr,  and  he  tried  to  push  past.  But  the  other 
man  stood  before  him  with  another  laugh  and 
cough.  "You  aren't  talking,  Burr;  I'm  the  one 
that's  talking,  and  I've  heard  stuff  that  was  worse 
to  listen  to.  You'd  better  stand  still." 

' ( I  tell  you  I'm  going,"  said  Burr,  with  a  thrust 
of  his  elbow  in  his  cousin's  side. 

"Well,"  said  Lot,  "go  if  you  want  to,  or  go 
if  you  don't  want  to.  That  last  is  what  you're 
doing,  Burr  Gordon." 

"What  do  mean  by  that  ?" 

"  You're  going  to  see  Dorothy  Fair  when  you 
want  to  see  Madelon  Hautville,  because  you  don't 
want  to  do  what  you  want  to.  Well,  go  on.  I'm 


C  MADELON 

going  to  see  Madelon  and  hear  her  sing.  Fve 
given  up  trying  to  work  against  my  own  motions. 
It's  no  use ;  when  you  think  you've  done  it,  you 
haven't.  You  never  can  get  out  of  this  one  gait 
that  you  were  born  to  except  in  your  own  look 
ing-glass.  Go  and  court  Dorothy  Fair,  and  in 
spite  of  yourself  you'll  kiss  the  other  girl  when 
you're  kissing  her.  "Well,  I  sha'n't  cheat  Madelon 
Hautville  that  way." 

"  You  know — she  will  not — you  know  Madelon 
Hautville  never — "  stammered  Burr  Gordon,  furi 
ously. 

Lot  laughed  again.  "You  think  she  sets  so 
much  by  you  she'll  never  kiss  me/'  said  he. 
"Don't  be  too  sure,  Burr.  Nature's  nature,  and 
the  best  of  us  come  under  it.  Madelon  Haut- 
ville's  got  her  place,  like  all  the  rest.  There  isn't 
a  rose  that's  too  good  to  take  a  bee  in.  Go  do 
your  own  courting,  and  trust  me  to  do  mine. 
Courting's  in  our  blood — I  sha'n't  disgrace  the 
family." 

Burr  Gordon  went  past  his  cousin  with  a 
smothered  ejaculation.  Lot  laughed  again,  and 
tramped,  coughing,  away  to  the  Hautville  house. 
When  he  drew  near  the  house  the  chorus  within 
were  still  practising  "  Strike  the  Timbrel."  When 
he  opened  the  door  and  entered  there  was  no 
cessation  in  the  music,  but  suddenly  the  girl's 
voice  seemed  to  gain  new  impulse  and  hurl  itself 
in  his  face  like  a  war-trumpet. 


MADELOK  7 

Burr  Gordon  kept  on  to  Minister  Jonathan 
Fair's  great  house  in  the  village,  next  the  tavern. 
There  was  a  light  in  the  north  parlor,  and  he 
knew  Dorothy  was  expecting  him.  He  raised 
the  knocker,  and  knew  when  it  fell  that  a  girl's 
heart  within  responded  to  it  with  .a  wild  beat. 

He  waited  until  there  was  a  heavy  shuffle  of 
feet  in  the  hall  and  the  door  opened,  and  Minister 
Fair's  black  servant-woman  stood  there  flaring  a 
candle  before  his  eyes. 

"Who  be  you?"  said  she,  in  her  rich  drone, 
which  had  yet  a  twang  of  hostility  in  it. 

Burr  Gordon  ignored  her  question.  "  Is  Miss 
Dorothy  at  home?"  said  he. 

"  Yes,  she's  at  home,  I  s'pose,"  muttered  the 
woman,  grudgingly.  She  distrusted  this  young 
man  as  a  suitor  for  Dorothy.  The  girl's  mother 
had  long  been  dead,  and  this  old  dark  woman, 
whose  very  thoughts  seemed  to  the  village  people 
to  move  on  barbarian  pivots  of  their  own,  had  a 
jealous  guardianship  of  her  which  exceeded  that 
of  her  father. 

Now  she  filled  up  the  doorway  before  Burr 
Gordon  with  her  majestic,  palpitating  bulk,  her 
great  black  face  stiffened  back  with  obstinacy. 
It  was  said  that  she  had  been  born  in  Africa, 
and  had  been  a  princess  in  her  own  country; 
and,  indeed,  she  bore  herself  like  one  now,  and 
held  up  her  orange-turbaned  head  as  if  it  were 
crowned,  and  bore  her  candle  like  a  flaming  seep- 


8  MADELON" 

tre  which  brought  out  strange  gleams  of  color  and 
metallic  lustres  from  her  garments  and  the  rows 
of  beads  on  her  black  neck. 

Burr  Gordon  made  an  impatient  yet  deferen 
tial  motion  to  enter.  "I  would  like  to  see  her  a 
few  minutes  if  she  is  at  home/'  said  he. 

The  woman  muttered  something  which  might 
have  been  in  her  native  dialect,  the  words  were 
so  rolled  into  each  other  under  her  thick  tongue, 
Her  small,  sharp  eyes  were  fairly  malicious  upon 
the  young  mail's  handsome  face. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  say,"  he  said,  half 
angrily.  "  Can't  I  see  her  ?" 

"  She's  in  the  north  parlor,  I  s'pose,"  muttered 
the  black  woman ;  and  she  stood  aside  and  let 
Burr  Gordon  pass  in,  following  him  with  her 
hostile  eyes  as  he  opened  the  north-parlor  door. 
Dorothy  Fair  sat  with  her  embroidery-work  at 
the  mahogany  table,  whereon  a  whole  branch  of 
candles  burned  in  silver  sticks.  She  was  work 
ing  a  muslin  collar  for  her  own  adornment,  and 
she  set  a  fine  stitch  in  a  sprig  before  she  rose  up, 
either  to  prove  her  self-command  to  herself  or  to 
Burr  Gordon.  She  had  also  held  herself  quiet 
during  the  delay  in  the  hall. 

Dorothy  Fair  came  of  a  gentle  and  self-con 
trolled  race  of  New  England  ministers ;  but  now 
her  young  heart  carried  her  away.  She  stood 
up ;  her  embroidery,  with  her  scissors  and  bod 
kin,  slid  to  the  ground,  and  she  came  forward 


MADELOST  {) 

with  her  fair  curls  dropping  around  a  face  pink 
and  smiling  openly  with  love  like  a  child's, 
and  was,  seemingly  half  of  her  own  accord,  in 
Burr  Gordon's  arms  with  her  lips  meeting  his; 
and  then  they  sat  down  side  by  side  on  the  north- 
parlor  sofa. 

Dorothy  Fair's  face  was  very  sweet  to  see;  her 
blue  eyes  and  her  soft  lips  were  innocent  and 
fond  under  her  lover's  gaze.  Her  little  white 
hand  clung  to  his  like  a  baby's.  There  was  a 
sweet  hollow  under  her  chin,  above  her  fine  lace 
collar.  Her  soft,  fair  curls  smelt  in  his  face  of 
roses  and  lavender.  The  utter  daintiness  of  this 
maiden  Dorothy  Fair  was  a  separate  charm  and 
a  fascination  full  of  subtle  and  innocent  earthi- 
ness  to  the  senses  of  a  lover.  She  appealed  to  his 
selfish  delight  like  a  sweet-scented  flower,  like  a 
pink  or  a  rose. 

Lot  Gordon  had  been  only  half  right  in  his 
analysis  of  his  cousin's  wooing.  When  Burr  sat 
with  his  arm  around  this  maiden's  waist,  with 
his  face  bent  tenderly  down  towards  the  soft, 
pink  cheek  on  his  shoulder,  this  sweetness  near 
at  hand  was  wellnigh  sufficient  for  him,  and 
Dorothy's  shy  murmur  of  love  in  his  ear  over 
came  largely  the  memory  of  the  other's  wonder 
ful  song.  A  bee  cares  only  for  the  honey  and 
not  for  the  flower,  therefore  one  flower  is  as  dear 
to  him  as  another;  and  so  it  is  with  many  a 
lover  when  he  gets  fairly  to  tasting  love.  The 


10  MADELON 

memory  of  the  rose  before  fades,  even  if  he  never 
wore  it.  Then,  too,  Burr  Gordon  had  a  sense 
of  approbation  from  his  shrewder  self  which  sus 
tained  him.  This  Dorothy  Fair,  the  minister's 
daughter,  of  gentle  New  England  lineage,  the 
descendant  of  college-learned  men,  and  of  women 
who .  had  held  themselves  with  a  fine  dignity 
and  mild  reserve  in  the  village  society,  the  sole 
heiress  of  what  seemed  a  goodly  property  to  the 
simple  needs  of  the  day,  appealed  to  his  reason 
as  well  as  his  heart.  He  remained  until  near 
midnight,  while  the  old  black  woman  crouched 
with  the  patience  of  a  watching  animal  outside 
the  door,  and  he  wooed  Dorothy  Fair  with  ardor 
and  delight,  although  her  softly  affectionate  kisses 
were  to  Madelon  Hautville's  as  the  fall  of  snow- 
flakes  to  drops  of  warm  honey.  And  although 
after  he  had  gone  home  and  fallen  asleep  his 
dreams  were  mixed,  still  when  he  waked  with 
the  image  of  Madelon  between  himself  and 
Dorothy,  because  sleep  had  set  his  heart  free,  it 
was  still  with  that  sense  of  approbation. 

Madelon  Hautville  was  not  considered  a  fair 
match  for  a  young  man  who  had  claims  to  am 
bition.  The  Hautville  family  held  a  peculiar 
place  in  public  estimation.  They  belonged  not 
to  any  defined  stratum  of  the  village  society,  but 
formed  rather  a  side  ledge,  a  cropping,  of  quite 
another  kind,  at  which  people  looked  askance. 
One  reason  undoubtedly  was  the  mixture  of 


MADELON  11 

foreign  blood  which  their  name  denoted.  Any 
thing  of  alien  race  was  looked  upon  with  a 
mixture  of  fear  and  aversion  in  this  village  of 
people  whose  blood  had  flowed  in  one  course 
for  generations.  The  Hautvilles  were  said  to 
have  French  and  Indian  blood  yet,  in  strong 
measure,  in  their  veins  ;  it  was  certain  that  they 
had  both,  although  it  was  fairly  back  in  history 
since  the  first  Hautville,  who,  report  said,  was  of 
a  noble  French  family,  had  espoused  an  Iroquois 
Indian  girl.  The  sturdy  males  of  the  family 
had  handed  down  the  name  and  the  character 
istics  of  the  races  through  years  of  intermarriage 
with  the  English  settlers.  All  the  Hautvilles — 
the  father,  the  four  sons,  and  the  daughter — 
were  tall  and  dark,  and  straight  as  arrows,  and 
they  all  had  wondrous  grace  of  manner,  which 
abashed  and  half  offended,  while  it  charmed, 
the  stiff  village  people.  Not  a  young  man  in 
the  village,  no  matter  how  finely  attired  in  city- 
made  clothing,  had  the  courtly  air  of  these 
Hautville  sons,  in  their  rude,  half -woodland 
garb ;  not  a  girl,  not  even  Dorothy  Fair,  could 
wear  a  gown  of  brocade  with  the  grace,  inherit 
ed  from  a  far-away  French  grandmother,  with 
which  Madelon  Hautville  wore  indigo  cotton. 

Moreover,  the  whole  family  was  as  musical  as 
a  band  of  troubadours,  and  while  that  brought 
them  into  constant  requisition  and  gave  them 
an  importance  in  the  town,  it  yet  caused  them 


12  MADELON 

to  be  held  with  a  certain  cheapness.  Music  as 
an  end  of  existence  and  means  of  livelihood 
was  lightly  estimated  by  the  followers  of  the 
learned  professions,  the  wielders  of  weighty 
doctrines  and  drugs,  and  also  by  the  tillers  of 
the  stern  New  England  soil.  The  Hautvilles, 
furnishing  the  music  in  church,,  and  for  dances 
and  funerals,  were  regarded  much  in  the  light 
of  mountebanks,  and  jugglers  with  sweet  sounds. 
People  wondered  that  Lot  and  Burr  Gordon 
should  go  to  their  house  so  much.  Not  a  week 
all  winter  but  Burr  had  been  there  once  or 
twice,  and  Lot  had  been  there  nearly  every 
night  when  his  cousin  was  not.  And  he  stayed 
late  also  —  this  night  he  outstayed  Burr  at 
Dorothy  Fair's.  The  music  was  kept  up  until  a 
late  hour,  for  Madelon  proposed  tune  after  tune 
with  nervous  ardor  when  her  father  and  brothers 
seemed  to  flag.  Nobody  paid  much  attention  to 
Lot ;  he  was  too  constant  a  visitor.  He  settled 
into  a  favorite  chair  of  his  near  the  fire,  and 
listened  with  the  firelight  playing  over  his  deli 
cate,  peaked  face.  Now  and  then  he  coughed. 

Old  David  Hautville,  the  father,  stood  out  in 
front  of  the  hearth  by  his  great  bass-viol,  leaning 
fondly  over  it  like  a  lover  over  his  mistress. 
David  Hautville  was  a  great,  spare  man — a  body 
of  muscles  and  sinews  under  dry,  brown  flesh, 
like  an  old  oak-tree.  His  long,  white  mustache 
curved  towards  his  ears  with  sharp  sweeps,  like 


MADELOK  13 

doves'  wings.  His  thick,  white  brows  met  over 
his  keen,  black  eyes.  He  kept  time  with  his 
head,  jerking  it  impatiently  now  and  then,  when 
some  one  lagged  or  sped  ahead  in  the  musical 
race. 

Three  of  the  Hautville  sons  were  men  grown. 
One,  Louis,  laid  his  dark,  smooth  cheek  caress 
ingly  against  the  violin  which  he  played.  Eu 
gene  sang  the  sonorous  tenor,  and  Abner  the 
bas-s,  like  an  organ.  The  youngest  son,  Eichard, 
small  and  slender  as  a  girl,  so  like  Madelon  that 
he  might  have  been  taken  for  her  had  he  been 
dressed  in  feminine  gear,  lifted  his  eager  face  at 
her  side  and  raised  his  piercing,  sweet  treble, 
which  seemed  to  pass  beyond  hearing  into  fancy. 
Madelon,  her  brown  throat  swelling  above  her 
lace  tucker,  like  a  bird's,  stood  in  the  midst  of 
the  men,  and  sang  and  sang,  and  her  wonderful 
soprano  flowed  through  the  harmony  like  a  river 
of  honey ;  and  yet  now  and  then  it  came  with  a 
sudden  fierce  impetus,  as  if  she  would  force 
some  enemy  to  bay  with  music.  Madelon  was 
slender,  but  full  of  curves  which  were  like  the 
soft  breast  of  a  bird  before  an  enemy.  Sometimes 
as  she  sang  she  flung  out  her  slender  hands  with 
a  nervous  gesture  which  had  hostility  in  it. 
Truth  was  that  she  hated  Lot  Gordon  both  on 
his  own  account  and  because  he  came  instead  of 
his  cousin  Burr.  She  had  expected  Burr  that 
night;  she  had  taken  his  cousin's  hand  on  the 


14  MADELON 

doorlatch  for  his.  He  had  not  been  to  see  her 
for  three  weeks,  and  her  heart  was  breaking  as 
she  sang.  Any  face  which  had  appeared  to  her 
instead  of  his  in  the  doorway  that  night  would 
have  been  to  her  as  the  face  of  a  bitter  enemy 
or  a  black  providence,  but  Lot  Gordon  was  in 
himself  hateful  to  her.  She  knew,  too,  by  a 
curious  revulsion  of  all  her  senses  from  unwel 
come  desire,  that  he  loved  her,  and  the  love  of 
any  man  except  Burr  Gordon  was  to  her  like  a 
serpent. 

She  would  not  look  at  him,  but  somehow  she 
knew  that  his  eyes  were  upon  her,  and  that  they 
were  full  of  love  and  malice,  and  she  knew  not 
which  she  dreaded  more.  She  resolved  that  he 
should  not  have  a  word  with  her  that  night  if  she 
could  help  it,  and  so  she  urged  on  her  father  and 
her  brothers  with  new  tunes  until  they  would  have 
no  more,  and  went  off  to  bed — all  except  the  boy 
Eichard.  She  whispered  in  his  ear,  and  he  stayed 
behind  with  her  while  she  mixed  some  bread  and 
set  it  for  rising  on  the  hearth. 

Lot  Gordon  sat  watching  her.  There  was  a 
hungry  look  in  his  hollow  blue  eyes.  Now  and 
then  he  coughed  painfully,  and  clapped  his  hand 
to  his  chest  with  an  impatient  movement. 

""Well,  whether  I  ever  get  to  heaven  or  not, 
Fve  heard  music,"  he  said,  when  she  passed  him 
with  the  bread-bowl  on  her  hip  and  her  soft  arm 
curved  around  it.  He  reached  out  his  slender 


MADELON  15 

hand  and  caught  hold  of  her  dress-skirt;  she 
jerked  away  with  a  haughty  motion,  and  set  the 
bowl  on  the  hearth.  "  You'd  better  rake  down 
the  fire  now,  Richard,"  said  she. 

The  boy  jostled  Lot  roughly  as  he  passed 
around  him  to  get  the  fire-shovel.  Lot  looked 
at  the  clock,  and  the  hand  was  near  twelve.  He 
arose  slowly. 

"I  met  Burr  on  his  way  down  to  Parson 
Fair's,"  he  said. 

Madelon  covered  up  the  bread  closely  with  a 
linen  towel.  There  was  a  surging  in  her  ears,  as 
if  misery  itself  had  a  veritable  sound,  and  her 
face  was  as  white  as  the  ashes  on  the  hearth,  but 
she  kept  it  turned  away  from  Lot, 

""Well,"  said  he,  in  his  husky  drawl,  "a  rose 
isn't  a  rose  to  a  bee,  she's  only  a  honey-pot ;  and 
she's  only  one  out  of  a  shelfful  to  him;  she 
can't  complain,  it's  what  she  was  born  to.  If 
she  finds  any  fault  it's  got  to  be  with  creation, 
and  what's  one  rose  to  face  creation  ?  There's 
nothing  to  do  but  to  make  the  best  of  it.  Good 
night,  Madelon." 

"  Good-night,"  said  Madelon.  The  color  had 
come  back  to  her  cheeks,  and  she  looked  back  at 
him  proudly,  standing  beside  her  bread-bowl  on 
the  hearth. 

Lot  passed  out,  turning  his  delicate  face  over 
his  shoulder  with  a  subtle  smile  as  he  went. 
Richard  clapped  the  door  to  after  him  with  a  jar 


16  MADELON 

that  shook  the  house,  and  shot  the  bolt  viciously. 
' ( I'll  get  iny  gun  and  follow  him  if  you  say  so, 
and  then  Fll  find  Burr  Gordon/'  he  said,  turning 
a  furious  face  to  his  sister. 

"  Would  you  make  me  a  laughing-stock  to  the 
whole  town?"  said  she.  "Rake  down  the  fire; 
it's  time  to  go  to  bed." 

She  looked  as  proudly  at  her  brother  as  she 
had  done  at  Lot.  The  resemblance  between  the 
two  faces  faded  a  little  as  they  confronted  each 
other.  A  virile  quality  in  the  boy's  anger  made 
the  difference  of  sex  more  apparent.  He  looked 
at  her,  holding  his  wrath,  as  it  were,  like  a  two- 
edged  sword  which  must  smite  some  one.  "If 
I  thought  you  cared  about  that  man  that  has 
jilted  you  —  and  Fve  heard  the  talk  about  it," 
said  he,  "I'd  feel  like  shooting  you." 

"You  needn't  shoot,"  returned  Madelon. 

The  boy  looked  at  her  as  angrily  as  if  she  were 
Burr  Gordon.  Suddenly  her  mouth  quivered 
a  little  and  her  eyes  fell.  The  boy  flung  both 
his  arms  around  her.  "I  don't  care,"  he  said, 
brokenly,  in  his  sweet  treble — "  I  don't  care,  you're 
the  handsomest  girl  in  the  town,  and  the  best 
and  the  smartest,  and  not  one  can  sing  like  you, 
and  I'll  kill  any  man  that  treats  you  ill — I  will,  I 
will!"  He  was  sobbing  on  his  sister's  shoulder; 
she  stood  still,  looking  over  his  dark  head  at  the 
snow-hung  window  and  the  night  outside.  Her 
lips  and  eyes  were  quite  steady  now ;  she  had  re- 


MADELON  17 

covered  self-control  when  her  brother's  failed 
him,,  as  if  by  some  curious  mental  seesaw. 

"No  man  can  treat  me  ill  unless  I  take  it  ill," 
said  she,  "and  that  Fll  do  for  no  man.  There's 
no  killing  to  be  done,  and  if  there  were  Fd  do  it 
myself  and  ask  nobody.  Come,  Richard,  let  me 
go  ;  Fm  going  to  bed."  She  gave  the  boy's  head 
a  firm  pat.  "There's  a  turnover  in  the  pantry, 
under  a  bowl  on  the  lowermost  shelf,"  said  she ; 
and  she  laughed  in  his  passionate,  flushed  face 
when  he  raised  it. 

"  I  don't  care,  I  will  !"  he  cried. 

"  Go  and  get  your  turnover  ;  I  saved  it  for 
you,"  said  she,  with  a  push. 

Neither  of  them  dreamed  that  Lot  Gordon  had 
been  watching  them,  standing  in  a  snow-drift 
under  the  south  window,  his  eyes  peering  over 
the  sill,  his  forehead  wet  with  a  snow-wreath, 
stifling  back  his  cough.  When  at  last  the  candle 
light  went  out  in  the  great  kitchen  he  crept 
stiffly  and  wearily  through  the  snow. 


CHAPTER  II 

LOT  GORDON  lived  about  half  a  mile  away  in 
the  old  Gordon  homestead  alone,,  except  for  an 
old  servant-woman  and  her  husband,  who  man 
aged  his  house  for  him  and  took  care  of  the  farm. 
Lot  himself  did  not  work  in  the  common  accept 
ance  of  the  term.  His  father  had  left  him  quite 
a  property,  and  he  did  not  need  to  toil  for  his 
bread.  People  called  him  lazy.  He  owned  nearly 
as  many  books  as  the  parson  and  the  lawyer.  He 
often  read  all  night  it  was  said,  and  he  roamed 
the  woods  in  all  seasons.  Under  low-hanging 
winter  boughs  and  summer  arches  did  Lot  Gor 
don  pry  and  slink  and  lie  in  wait,  his  fine,  sharp 
face  peering  through  snowy  tunnels  or  white 
spring  thickets  like  a  white  fox,  hungrily  intent 
upon  the  secrets  of  nature. 

There  was  a  deep  mystery  in  this  to  the  village 
people.  They  could  not  fathom  the  reason  for  a 
man's  haunting  wild  places  like  a  wild  animal 
unless  he  hunted  and  trapped  like  the  Hautville 
sons.  They  were  suspicious  of  dark  motives, 
upon  which  they  exercised  their  imaginations. 

Lot  Gordon's  talk,  moreover,  was  an  enigma 


MADELOtf  19 

to  them.  He  was  no  favorite,  and  only  his  good 
ly  property  tempered  his  ill  repute.  People 
could  not  help  identifying  him,,  in  a  measure, 
with  his  noble  old  house,  with  the  stately  pillared 
portico,  with  his  silver-plate  and  damask  and 
mahogany,  which  his  great-grandfather  had 
brought  from  the  old  country,  with  his  fine  fields 
and  his  money  in  the  bank.  He  held,  moreover, 
a  large  mortgage  on  the  house  opposite,  where 
Burr  Gordon  lived  with  his  mother.  Burr's 
father  and  Lot's,  although  sons  of  one  shrewd 
father,  had  been  of  very  different  financial  abilities. 
Lot's  father  kept  his  property  intact,  never  wast 
ing,  but  adding  from  others'  waste.  Burr's 
plunged  into  speculation,  built  a  new  house,  for 
which  he  could  not  pay,  married  a  wife  who  was 
not  thrifty,  and  when  his  father  died  had  antici 
pated  the  larger  portion  of  his  birthright.  So 
Lot's  father  succeeded  to  nearly  all  the  family 
estates,  and  in  time  absorbed  the  rest.  Lot,  at 
his  father's  death,  had  inherited  the  mortgage 
upon  the  estate  of  Burr  and  his  mother.  Burr's 
father  had  died  some  time  before.  Lot  was  ru 
mored  to  be  harder,  in  the  matter  of  exacting 
heavy  interest,  than  his  father  had  been.  It  was 
said  that  Burr  was  far  behind  in  his  payments, 
and  that  Lot  would  foreclose.  Burr  had  a  better 
head  than  his  father's,  but  he  had  terrible  odds 
against  him.  There  was  only  one  chance  for  his 
release  from  difficulty,  people  thought.  All  the 


20  MADELON 

property,  by  a  provision  in  the  grandfathers 
will,  was  to  fall  to  him  if  Lot  died  unmarried. 
Lot  was  twenty  years  older  than  Burr,,  and  he 
coughed. 

"Burr  Gordon  ain't  makin'  out  much  now," 
people  said;  "the  paint's  all  off  his  house  and 
his  land's  run  down,  but  there's  dead  men's  shoes 
with  gold  buckles  in  the  path  ahead  of  him." 

Burr  thought  of  it  sometimes,  although  he 
turned  his  face  from  the  thought,  and  Lot  con 
sidered  it  when  he  took  the  mortgage  note  out 
of  his  desk  and  scored  another  instalment  of 
unpaid  interest  on  it.  "If  a  man's  only  his 
own  debtor  he  won't  be  very  hard  on  himself,"  he 
said  aloud,  and  laughed.  Old  Margaret  Bean,  his 
housekeeper,  looked  at  him  over  her  spectacles, 
but  she  did  not  know  what  he  meant.  She  pre 
pared  many  a  valuable  remedy  for  his  cough  from 
herbs  and  roots,  but  Lot  would  never  taste  them, 
and  she  made  her  old  husband  swallow  them  all  as 
preventatives  of  colds,  that  they  should  not  be 
wasted.  Lot  was  coughing  harder  lately.  To 
night,  after  he  returned  from  the  Hautvilles',  he 
had  one  paroxysm  after  another.  He  did  not  go 
to  bed,  but  huddled  over  the  fire  wrapped  in  a 
shawl,  with  a  leather-bound  book  on  his  knees, 
all  night,  holding  to  his  chest  when  he  coughed, 
then  turning  to  his  book  again. 

When  daylight  was  fully  in  the  room  he  blew 
out  the  candle,  and  went  over  to  the  window  and 


MADELON  21 

looked  out  across  the  road  at  the  house  opposite, 
which  had  always  been  called  the  "  new  house  " 
to  distinguish  it  from  the  old  Gordon  homestead. 
It  was  not  so  solid  and  noble  as  the  other,  but  it 
had  sundry  little  touches  of  later  times,  which 
his  father  had  always  characterized  as  wasteful 
follies.  For  one  thing,  it  was  elevated  ostenta 
tiously  far  above  the  road-level  upon  terraces 
surmounted  by  a  flight  of  stone  steps.  It  fairly 
looked  down,  like  any  spirit  of  a  younger  age, 
upon  the  older  house,  which  might  have  been  re 
garded  in  a  way  as  its  progenitor. 

The  smoke  was  coming  out  of  the  kitchen 
chimney  in  the  ell.  Lot  Gordon  looked  across. 
Burr  was  clearing  the  snow  from  the  stone  steps 
over  the  terraces.  There  had  never  been  any 
lack  of  energy  and  industry  in  Burr  to  account 
for  his  flagging  fortunes.  He  arose  betimes  ev 
ery  morning.  Lot,  standing  well  behind  the  dim 
ity  curtain,  watched  him  flinging  the  snow  aside 
like  spray,  his  handsome  face  glowing  like  a 
rose. 

"  I  suppose  he  is  going  to  the  party  at  the  tav 
ern  to-night,"  Lot  murmured.  Suddenly  his 
face  took  on  a  piteous,  wistful  look  like  a  wom 
an's  ;  tears  stood  in  his  blue  eyes.  He  doubled 
over  with  a  violent  fit  of  coughing,  then  went 
back  to  his  chair  and  his  book. 

This  party  had  been  the  talk  of  the  village  for 
several  weeks.  It  was  to  be  an  unusually  large 


22  MADELOtf 

one.  People  were  coming  from  all  the  towns 
roundabout.  Burr  Gordon  had  been  one  of  the 
ringleaders  of  the  enterprise.  All  day  long  he 
worked  over  the  preparations,  dragging  out  ever 
green  garlands  from  under  the  snow  in  the 
woods,,  cutting  hemlock  boughs,  and  trimming 
the  ball-room  in  the  tavern.  Towards  night  he 
heard  a  piece  of  news  which  threatened  to  bring 
everything  to  a  standstill.  The  dusk  was  thick 
ening  fast ;  Burr  and  the  two  young  men  who 
were  working  with  him  were  hurrying  to  finish 
the  decorations  before  candlelight  when  Rich 
ard  Hautville  came  in.  Burr  started  when  he 
saw  him.  He  looked  so  like  his  sister  in  the 
dim  light  that  he  thought  for  a  moment  she  was 
there. 

Richard  did  not  notice  him  at  all.  He  hustled 
by  him  roughly  and  approached  the  other  two 
young  men.  "Louis  can't  fiddle  to-night.,"  he 
announced,  curtly.  The  young  men  stared  at 
him  in  dismay. 

"What's  the  trouble  ?"  asked  Burr. 

"  He's  hurt  his  arm/'  replied  Richard  ;  but  he 
still  addressed  the  other  two,  and  made  as  if  he 
were  not  answering  Burr. 

"  Broke  it  ?"  asked  one  of  the  others. 

"No  ;  sprained  it.  He  was  clearing  the  snow 
off  the  barn  roof  and  the  ladder  fell.  It's  all 
black-and-blue,  and  he  can't  lift  it  enough  to 
fiddle  to-night." 


MADELON  23 

The  three  young  men  looked  at  each  other. 

"What's  going  to  be  done  ?"  said  one. 

"I  don't  know/'  said  Burr.  "There's  Davy 
Barrett,  over  to  the  Four  Corners — I  suppose  we 
might  get  him  if  we  sent  right  over." 

"You  can't  get  him/'  said  Kichard  Hautville, 
still  addressing  the  other  two,  as  if  they  had 
spoken.  "Louis  said  you  couldn't.  His  wife's 
got  the  typhus-fever,  and  he's  up  nights  watch 
ing  with  her — won't  let  anybody  else.  You  can't 
get  him." 

"We  can't  have  a  ball  without  a  fiddler,"  one 
young  man  said,  soberly. 

"  Maybe  Madelon  would  lilt  for  the  dancing," 
Burr  Gordon  said  ;  and  then  he  colored  furiously, 
as  if  he  had  startled  himself  in  saying  it. 

The  boy  turned  on  him.  "Maybe  you  think 
my  sister  will  lilt  for  you  to  dance,  Burr  Gor 
don  !"  cried,  he,  and  his  face  blazed  white  in  Burr's 
eyes,  and  he  shook  his  slender  brown  fist. 

"Nobody  wants  your  sister  to  lilt  if  she  isn't 
willing  to,"  Burr  returned,  in  a  hard  voice  ;  and 
he  snatched  up  a  hemlock  bough,  and  went  away 
with  it  to  the  other  side  of  the  ball-room. 

"  My  sister  won't  lilt  for  you,  and  you  can 
have  your  ball  the  best  way  you  can !"  shouted 
the  boy,  his  angry  eyes  following  Burr.  Then 
he  went  out  of  the  ball-room  with  a  leap,  and 
slammed  the  door  so  that  the  tavern  trem 
bled. 


24  MADELON 

The  young  men  chuckled.  "Injun  blood  is 
up/'  said  one. 

"  You'll  be  scalped,  Burr/'  called  the  other. 

Burr  came  over  to  them  with  an  angry  stride. 
"Oh,  quit  fooling !"  said  he,  impatiently.  "What's 
going  to  be  done  ?" 

"Nothing  can  be  done  ;  we  shall  have  to  give 
the  ball  up  for  to-night  unless  you  can  get  Made- 
Ion  Hautville  to  lilt  for  the  dancing/'  returned 
one,  and  the  other  nodded  assent.  "That's  the 
state  of  the  case/'  said  he. 

Burr  scraped  a  foot  impatiently  on  the  waxed 
floor.  "  Go  and  ask  her  yourself,  Daniel  Plymp- 
ton,"  said  he.  "  I  don't  see  why  it  has  all  got  to 
come  on  to  me." 

"Can't,"  replied  Daniel  Plympton,  with  a 
laugh.  "  Remember  the  falling  out  Eugene  and 
I  had  at  the  house-raising  ?  I  ain't  going  to  his 
house  to  ask  his  sister  to  lilt  for  my  dancing." 

"You,  then,  Abner  Little,"  said  Burr,  per 
emptorily,  to  the  other  young  man.  He  had  a 
fair,  nervous  face,  and  he  was  screwing  his  fore 
head  anxiously  over  the  situation. 

"Can't  nohow,  Burr,"  said  he.  "I've  got  to 
drive  four  miles  home,  and  milk,  and  take  care  of 
the  horses,  and  shave,  and  get  dressed,  and  then 
drive  another  three  miles  for  my  girl.  I'm  going 
to  take  one  of  the  Morse  girls,  over  at  Summer 
Falls.  I  haven't  got  time  to  go  down  to  the 
Hautvilles',  and  that's  the  truth,  Burr." 


MADELCW  25 

"You'll  have  to  go  yourself,  Burr/'  said 
Daniel  Plympton,  with  a  half-laugh. 

' '  I  can't/'  said  Burr,,  "  and  I  won't,  if  we 
give  the  ball  up." 

"What  will  all  the  out-of-town  folks  say  ?" 

"I  don't  care  what  they  say — they  can  play 
forfeits." 

"Forfeits!"  returned  Daniel  Plympton  with 
scorn.  "  What's  kissing  to  dancing  ?"  Daniel 
Plympton  was  somewhat  stout  but  curiously 
light  of  foot,  and  accounted  the  best  dancer  in 
town.  As  he  spoke  he  sprang  up  on  his  toes  as 
if  he  had  winged  heels.  "Forfeits!"  repeated 
he,  jerking  his  great  flaxen  head. 

"Well,  you  can  go  yourself,  then,  and  ask 
Madelon  Hautville  to  lilt,"  said  Burr. 

"I  tell  you  I  can't,  Burr  —  I  ain't  mean 
enough." 

"  Well,  I  won't,  and  that's  flat." 

"I've  got  to  go  home,  anyway,"  said  Abner 
Little.  "What  I  want  to  know  is — is  there 
going  to  be  any  ball  ?" 

"'Oh,  get  your  girl  anyhow,  Ab,"  returned 
Daniel,  with  a  great  laugh;  "there'll  be  some 
thing.  If  there  ain't  dancing,  there'll  be  kiss 
ing,  and  that'll  suit  her  just  as  well.  And  if 
she  can't  get  enough  here,  why  there's  the  ride 
home.  Lord,  I'd  get  a  girl  nearer  home ! 
You've  got  to  drive  six  miles  out  of  your  way 
to  Summer  Falls  and  back.  As  for  me,  the 


26  MADELON 

quicker  I  get  a  girl  off  my  hands  the  better. 
Fm  going  to  take  Nancy  Blake  because  she 
lives  next  door  to  the  tavern.  Go  along  with 
ye.,  Ab  ;  Burr  and  I  will  settle  it  some  way." 

But  it  looked  for  some  time  after  Abner 
Little  left  as  if  there  would  be  no  ball  that 
night.  They  could  not  have  any  dance  unless 
Madelon  Hautville  would  sing  for  it,  and  both 
Daniel  Plympton  and  Burr  Gordon  were  deter 
mined  not  to  ask  her. 

At  half -past  seven  Madelon  was  all  dressed 
for  the  ball,,  and  neither  of  them  had  come  to 
see  her  about  it.  She  and  all  her  brothers  ex 
cept  Louis  were  going.  They  wondered  who 
would  play  for  the  dancing,  but  supposed  some 
arrangements  would  be  made.  "  Burr  Gordon 
will  put  it  through  somehow,"  said  Louis. 
"  Maybe  he'll  ride  over  to  Farnham  Hollow  and 
get  Luke  Corliss  to  fiddle."  Louis  sat  discon 
tentedly  by  the  fire,  with  his  arm  soaking  in 
cider-brandy  and  wormwood. 

"Farnham  Hollow  is  ten  miles  away,"  said 
Eichard. 

"His  horse  is  fast;  he'd  get  him  here  by 
eight  o'clock,"  returned  Louis. 

Madelon  was  radiant.  In  spite  of  herself,  she 
was  full  of  hope  in  going  to  the  ball.  She  knew 
Dorothy  Fair  would  not  be  present,  since  her 
father  was  the  orthodox  parson,  and  she  had 
seen  her  own  face  in  her  glass.  With  her  rival 


MADELON  27 

away,  what  could  not  a  face  like  that  do  with 
a  heart  that  leaned  towards  it  of  its  own  nature  ? 
Madeloii  dimly  felt  that  Burr  Gordon  had  to 
resist  himself  as  well  as  her  in  this  matter.  She 
had  tended  a  monthly  rose  in  the  south  window 
all  winter,  and  she  wore  two  red  roses  in  her 
black  braids.  Her  cheeks  and  her  lips  were 
fuller  of  warm  red  life  than  the  roses.  She 
lowered  her  black  eyes  before  her  father  and 
her  brothers,  for  there  was  a  light  in  them 
which  she  could  not  subdue,  which  belonged  to 
Burr  Gordon  only.  No  costly  finery  had  Made- 
Ion  Hautville,  but  she  had  done  some  cunning 
needle-work  on  an  old  black-satin  gown  of  her 
mother's,  and  it  was  fitted  as  softly  over  her 
sweet  curves  as  a  leaf  over  a  bud.  A  long  gar 
land  of  flowers  after  her  own  design  had  she 
wrought  in  bright-colored  silks  around  the  pet 
ticoat,  and  there  were  knots  of  red  ribbon  to 
fasten  the  loopings  here  and  there.  And  she 
wore  another  red  rose  in  her  lace  tucker  against 
her  soft  brown  bosom.  Madelon  wore,  too,  trim 
black -silk  stockings  with  red  clocks  over  her 
slender  ankles,  and  little  black-satin  shoes  with 
steel  buckles  and  red  rosettes.  Every  one  of 
her  brothers,  except  the  youngest,  Eichard,  must 
needs  compare  her  in  his  own  heart,  to  her  dis 
paragement,  with  some  maid  not  his  sister,  but 
they  all  viewed  her  with  pride.  Old  David 
Hautville's  eyes,  under  his  thick,  white  brows, 


28  MADELOK 

followed  her  and  dwelt  upon  her  as  she  moved 
around  the  kitchen. 

Madelon  had  got  out  her  red  cloak  and  her  silk 
hood,,  and  it  was  nearly  time  to  start  when  there 
was  a  knock  on  the  door.  Madelon's  face  was 
pale  in  a  second,  then  red  again.  She  pushed 
Eichard  aside.  "  I'll  go  to  the  door/'  said  she. 

She  knew  somehow  that  it  was  Burr  Gordon,, 
and  when  she  opened  the  door  he  stood  there. 
He  looked  curiously  embarrassed,  but  she  did  not 
notice  that.  His  mere  presence  for  the  moment 
seemed  to  fill  all  her  comprehension.  She  had 
no  eye  for  shades  of  expression. 

"  Come  in/'  said  she,  all  blushing  and  trem 
bling  before  him,  and  yet  with  a  certain  dignity 
which  never  quite  deserted  her. 

"  Can  I  see  you  a  minute  ?"  Burr  said,  awk 
wardly. 

"Come  this  way." 

Madelon  led  the  way  into  the  best  room,  where 
there  was  no  fire.  It  had  not  been  warmed 
all  winter,  except  on  nights  when  Burr  had  come 
courting  her.  In  the  midst  of  it  the  great  cur 
tained  bedstead  reared  itself,  holding  its  feather 
bed  like  a  drift  of  snow.  The  floor  was  sanded 
in  a  fine,  small  pattern,  there  were  white  tasselled 
curtains  at  the  windows,  and  there  was  a  tall 
chest  of  drawers  that  reached  tlie  ceiling.  The 
room  was  just  as  Madelon's  mother,  who  had 
been  one  of  the  village  girls,  had  left  it. 


MADELOK  29 

Madelon  glanced  at  the  hearth,,  where  she  had 
laid  the  wood  symmetrically — all  ready  to  be 
kindled  at  a  moment's  notice  should  Burr  come. 
"I'll  light  the  fire/' said  she,  in  a  trembling  voice. 

"  No,  I  can't  stop/'  returned  the  young  man. 
e(  I've  got  to  go  right  up  to  the  tavern.  Look 
here,  Madelon — " 

"Well  ?"  she  murmured,  trembling. 

' '  I  want  to  know  if — -look  here,  won't  you  lilt 
for  the  dancing  to-night,  Madelon  ?" 

Madelon's  face  changed.  "That's  all  he  came 
for,"  she  thought.  She  turned  away  from  him. 
"You'd  better  get  Luke  Corliss  to  fiddle,"  she 
said,  coldly. 

"We  can't.  I  started  to  go  over  there,  and  I 
met  a  man  that  lives  next  door  to  him,  and  he 
said  it  was  no  use,  for  Luke  had  gone  down  to 
Winfield  to  fiddle  at  a  ball  there." 

"I  don't  feel  like  lilting  to-night,"  said  Made- 
Ion. 

The  young  man  colored.  "Well,"  said  he,  in 
a  stiff,  embarrassed  voice,  and  he  turned  towards 
the  door,  "we  won't  have  any  ball  to-night, 
that's  all, "he  added. 

"Well,  you  can  go  visiting  instead,"  returned 
Madelon,  suddenly. 

"I'd  rather  go  a-visiting — here!"  cried  Burr, 
with  a  quick  fervor,  and  he  turned  back  and 
came  close  to  her. 

Madelon  looked  at  him  sharply,  steeling  her 


30  MADELON 

heart  against  his  tender  tone,  but  he  met  her 
gaze  with  passionate  eyes. 

"  Oh,  Madelon,  you  look  so  beautiful  to-night  I" 
he  whispered,  hoarsely.  Her  eyes  fell  before  his. 
She  made,  whether  she  would  or  not,  a  motion 
towards  him,  and  he  put  his  arms  around  her. 
They  kissed  again  and  again,  lingering  upon  each 
kiss  as  if  it  were  a  foothold  in  heaven.  A  great 
rapture  of  faith  in  her  lover  and  his  love  came 
over  Madelon.  She  said  to  herself  that  they  had 
lied — they  had  all  lied  !  Burr  had  never  courted 
Dorothy  Fair.  She  believed,  with  her  whole 
heart  and  soul,  that  he  loved  her  and  her  alone. 
And,  indeed,  she  was  at  that  time,  at  that  minute, 
right  and  not  deceived  ;  for  Burr  Gordon  was  one 
of  those  who  can  encompass  love  in  one  tense  only, 
and  that  the  present ;  and  they  who  love  only 
in  the  present,  hampered  by  no  memories  and  no 
dreams,  yield  out  love's  sweetness  fully.  All 
Burr  Gordon's  soul  was  in  his  kisses  and  his 
fond  eyes,  and  her  own  crept  out  to  meet  it 
with  perfect  faith. 

"I  will  lilt  for  the  dancing,"  she  whispered. 

The  Hautvilles  were  going  to  the  ball  011  their 
wood-sled,  drawn  by  oxen.  David  was  to  drive 
them,  and  take  the  team  home.  It  was  already 
before  the  door  when  Burr  came  out,  and  Made- 
Ion  asked  him  to  ride  with  them,  but  he  refused. 
"  Fve  got  to  go  home  first/'  he  said,  and  plunged 
off  quickly  down  the  old  road,  the  short-cut  to 
his  house. 


MADELON  31 

Madelon  Hautville,  in  her  red  cloak  and  her 
great  silk  hood,  stood  in  the  midst  of  her  brothers 
on  the  wood-sled,,  and  the  oxen  drew  them  pon 
derously  to  the  ball.  The  tavern  was  all  alight. 
Many  other  sleds  were  drawn  up  before  the  door  ; 
indeed,  certain  of  the  young  men  who  had  not 
their  especial  sweethearts  took  their  ox-sleds 
and  went  from  door  to  door  collecting  the  young 
women.  Many  a  jingling  load  slipped  along  the 
snowy  road  to  the  tavern  that  night,  and  the  ball 
room  filled  rapidly. 

At  eight  o'clock  the  ball  opened.  Madelon 
stood  up  in  the  little  gallery  allotted  to  the  vio 
lins  and  lilted,  and  the  march  began.  Two  and 
two,  the  young  men  and  the  girls  swung  around 
the  room.  Madelon  lilted  with  her  eyes  upon 
the  moving  throng,  gay  as  a  garden  in  a  wind ; 
and  suddenly  her  heart  stood  still,  although  she 
lilted  on.  Down  on  the  floor  below  Burr  Gordon 
led  the  march,  with  Dorothy  Fair  on  his  arm. 
Dorothy  Fair,  waving  a  great  painted  fan  with 
the  tremulous  motion  of  a  butterfly's  wing,  with 
her  blue  brocade  petticoat  tilting  airily  as  she 
moved,  like  an  inverted  bell-flower,  with  a  lock 
et  set  in  brilliants  flashing  on  her  white  neck, 
with  her  pink-and-white  face  smiling  out  with 
gentle  gayety  from  her  fair  curls,  stepped  deli 
cately,  pointing  out  her  blue  satin  toes,  around 
the  ball-room,  with  one  little  white  hand  on  Burr 
Gordon's  arm. 


CHAPTER  III 

SUDDENLY  all  Madelon's  beauty  was  cheapened 
in  her  own  eyes.  She  saw  herself  swart  and 
harsh-faced  as  some  old  savage  squaw  beside  this 
fair  angel.  She  turned  on  herself  as  well  as  on 
her  recreant  lover  with  rage  and  disdain — and  all 
the  time  she  lilted  without  one  break. 

The  ball  swung  on  and  on,  and  Madelon,  up 
in  the  musicians'  gallery,  sang  the  old  country- 
dances  in  the  curious  dissyllabic  fashion  termed 
lilting.  It  never  occurred  to  her  to  wonder  how 
it  was  that  Dorothy  Fair,  the  daughter  of  the 
orthodox  minister,  should  be  at  the  ball  —  she 
who  had  been  brought  up  to  believe  in  the  sinful 
and  hellward  tendencies  of  the  dance.  Madelon 
only  grasped  the  fact  that  she  was  there  with 
Burr ;  but  others  wondered,  and  the  surprise  had 
been  great  when  Dorothy  in  her  blue  brocade 
had  appeared  in  the  ball-room. 

This  had  been  largely  of  late  years  a  liberal 
and  Unitarian  village,  but  Parson  Fair  had  al 
ways  held  stanchly  to  his  stern  orthodox  tenets, 
and  promulgated  them  undiluted  before  his  thin 
ning  congregations  and  in  his  own  household. 


MADELOK  33 

Dorothy  could  not  only  not  play  cards  or 
dance,  but  she  could  not  be  present  at  a  party 
where  the  cards  were  produced  or  the  fiddle 
played.  There  was,  indeed,  a  rumor  that  she  had 
learned  to  dance  when  she  was  in  Boston  at 
school,  but  no  one  knew  for  certain. 

Dorothy  Fair  was  advancing  daintily  between 
the  two  long  lines,  holding  up  her  blue  brocade 
to  clear  her  blue-satin  shoes,  to  meet  the  young 
man  from  the  opposite  corner,  flinging  out  gayly 
towards  her,  when  suddenly,  with  no  warning 
whatever,  a  great  dark  woman  sped  after  her 
through  the  dance,  like  a  wild  animal  of  her  na 
tive  woods.  She  reached  out  her  black  hand 
and  caught  Dorothy  by  the  white,  lace  -  draped 
arm,  and  she  whispered  loud  in  her  ear. 

The  people  near,  finding  it  hard  to  understand 
the  African  woman's  thick  tongue,  could  not  ex 
actly  vouch  for  the  words,  but  the  purport  of  her 
hurried  speech  they  did  not  mistake.  Parson 
Fair  had  discovered  Mistress  Dorothy's  absence, 
and  home  she  must  hasten  at  once.  It  was  evi 
dent  enough  to  everybody  that  staid  and  deco 
rous  Dorothy  had  run  away  to  the  ball  with  Burr 
Gordon,  and  a  smothered  titter  ran  down  the 
files  of  the  Virginia  reel. 

Burr  Gordon  cast  a  fierce  glance  around ;  then 
he  sprang  to  Dorothy's  side,  and  she  looked 
palely  and  piteously  up  at  him. 

He  pulled  her  hand  through  his  arm  and  led 


34  MADELON 

her  out  of  the  hall-room,,  with  the  black  woman 
following  sulkily,  muttering  to  herself.  Burr 
bent  closely  down  over  Dorothy's  drooping  head 
as  they  passed  out  of  the  door.  "  Don't  be 
frightened,  sweetheart/'  whispered  he.  Made- 
Ion  saw  him  as  she  lilted,  and  it  seemed  to  her 
that  she  heard  what  he  said. 

It  was  not  long  after  when  she  felt  a  touch 
on  her  shoulder  as  she  sat  resting  between 
the  dances,  gazing  with  her  proud,  bright  eyes 
down  at  the  merry,  chattering  throng  below. 
She  turned,  and  her  brother  Richard  stood  there 
with  a  strange  young  man,  and  Richard  held 
Louis's  fiddle  on  his  shoulder. 

" This  is  Mr.  Otis,  Madelon,"  said  Richard, 
"and  he  came  up  from  Kingston  to  the  ball, 
and  he  can  fiddle  as  well  as  Louis,  and  he  said 
'twas  a  shame  you  should  lilt  all  night  and  not 
have  a  chance  to  dance  yourself;  and  so  I  ran 
home  and  got  Louis's  fiddle,  and  there  are  plenty 
down  there  to  jump  at  the  chance  of  you  for  a 
partner — and — "  the  boy  leaned  forward  and 
whispered  in  his  sister's  ear:  "Burr  Gordon's 
gone — and  Dorothy  Fair." 

Madelon  turned  her  beautiful,  proud  face  tow 
ards  the.  stranger,  and  did  not  notice  Richard 
at  all.  "Thank  you,  sir,"  said  she,  inclining 
her  long  neck;  "but  I  care  not  to  dance — I'd 
as  lief  lilt." 

"  But,"  said  the  strange  young  man,  pressing 


MADELOK  35 

forward  impetuously  and  gazing  into  her  black 
eyes,  "you  look  tired;  'tis  a  shame  to  work  you 
so." 

"I  rest  between  the  dances,  and  I  am  not 
tired,"  said  Madelon,  coldly. 

"I  beg  you  to  let  me  fiddle  for  the  rest  of  the 
ball,"  pleaded  the  young  man.  "  Let  me  fiddle 
while  you  dance ;  you  may  be  sure  I'll  fiddle  my 
best  for  you." 

A  tender  note  came  into  his  voice,  and,  curi 
ously  enough,  Madelon  did  not  resent  it,  although 
she  had  never  seen  him  before  and  he  had  no 
right.  She  looked  up  in  his  bright  fair  face 
with  sudden  hesitation,  and  his  blue  eyes  bent 
half  humorously,  half  lovingly  upon  her.  She 
had  a  fierce  desire  to  get  away  from  this  place, 
out  into  the  night,  and  home.  "  I  do  not  care 
to  dance,"  said  she,  falteringly;  "but  I  could 
go  home,  if  you  felt  disposed  to  fiddle." 

"  Then  go  home  and  rest,"  cried  the  stranger, 
brightly.  "'Tis  a  strain  on  the  throat  to  lilt  so 
long,  and  you  cannot  put  in  a  new  string  as  you 
can  in  a  fiddle." 

With  that  the  young  man  came  forward  to 
the  front  of  the  little  gallery,  and  Madelon 
yielded  up  her  place  hesitatingly. 

"  But  you  cannot  dance  yourself,  sir,"  said  she. 

"  I  have  danced  all  I  want  to  to-night,"  he 
replied,  and  began  tuning  the  fiddle. 

"I'm   sure   I'm   much   obliged   to   you,  sir," 


36  MADELOX 

Madelon  said,  and  got  her  hood  and  cloak  from 
the  back  of  the  gallery  with  no  more  parley. 

The  young  man  cast  admiring  glances  after 
her  as  she  went  out,  with  her  young  brother  at 
her  heels. 

"Fm  going  home  with  you/' Richard  said  to 
her  as  they  went  down  the  gallery  stairs. 

"Not  a  step,"  said  she.  "You've  just  been 
after  the  fiddle,  and  they're  going  to  dance  the 
Fisher's  Hornpipe  next." 

"You'll  be  afraid  in  that  lonesome  stretch 
after  you  leave  the  village." 

"Afraid!"  There  was  a  ring  of  despairing 
scorn  in  the  girl's  voice,  as  if  she  faced  already 
such  woe  that  the  supposition  of  new  terror  was 
an  absurdity. 

They  had  come  down  to  the  ball-room  floor, 
and  were  standing  directly  in  front  of  the  musi 
cians'  gallery.  The  young  fiddler,  Jim  Otis,, 
leaned  over  and  looked  at  them. 

"I  don't  care,"  said  Eichard,  "I  won't  let 
you  go  alone  unless  you  take  my  knife." 

Madelon  laughed.  "  What  nonsense  !"  said 
she,  and  tried  to  pass  her  brother. 

But  Richard  held  her  by  the  arm  while  he 
rummaged  in  his  pocket  for  the  great  clasp-knife 
which  he  had  earned  himself  by  the  sale  of 
some  rabbit  -  skins,  and  which  was  the  pride  of 
his  heart  and  his  dearest  treasure,  and  opened 
it.  "  Here,"  said  he,  and  he  forced  the  clasp- 


MADELOK  37 

knife  into  his  sister's  hand.  Otis,  leaning  over 
the  gallery,  saw  it  all.  Many  of  the  dancers 
had  gone  to  supper ;  there  was  no  other  person 
very  near  them.  "If  you  should  meet  a  bear, 
you  could  kill  him  with  that  knife  —  it's  so 
strong/'  said  the  boy.  "  If  you  don't  take  it 
I'll  go  home  with  you,  and  it's  so  late  father 
won't  let  me  come  out  again  to-night." 

"  Well,  I'll  take  it,"  Madelon  said,  wearily,  and 
she  passed  out  of  the  ball-room  with  the  knife  in 
her  hand,  under  her  cloak. 

When  she  got  out  in  the  cold  night  air  she 
sped  along  fast  over  the  creaking  snow,  still  hold 
ing  the  knife  clutched  fast  in  her  hand.  She 
began  to  lilt  again  as  she  went,  and  again  Burr  and 
Dorothy  danced  together  before  her  eyes.  She 
passed  Parson  Fair's  house,  and  the  best-room 
windows  were  lighted.  She  thought  that  Burr 
was  there,  and  she  lilted  more  loudly  the  Vir 
ginia  reel. 

After  Parson  Fair's  house  was  some  time  left 
behind,  and  she  had  come  into  the  lengthy  stretch 
of  road,  she  saw  a  shadowy  figure  ahead.  She 
could  not  at  first  tell  whether  it  was  moving 
towards  or  from  her — whether  it  was  a  man  or  a 
woman ;  or,  indeed,  whether  it  were  not  a  forest 
tree  encroaching  on  the  road  and  moving  in  the 
wind.  She  kept  on  swiftly,  holding  her  knife 
under  her  cloak.  She  had  stopped  singing. 

Presently  she  saw  that  the  figure  was  a  man,  and 


38  MADELON 

coming  her  way;  and  then  her  heart  stood  still,  for 
she  knew  "by  the  swing  of  his  shoulders  that  it  was 
Burr  Gordon.  She  threw  back  her  proud  head 
and  sped  along  towards  him,  grasping  her  knife 
under  her  cloak  and  looking  neither  to  the  right 
nor  left.  She  swerved  not  her  eyes  a  hair's-breadth 
when  she  came  close  to  him — so  close  that  their 
shoulders  almost  touched  in  passing  in  the  narrow 
path. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  quick  sigh  in  her  ear — 
"  Oh,  Madelon  I"  Then  an  arm  was  flung  around 
her  waist  and  hot  lips  were  pressed  to  her  own. 

The  mixed  blood  of  two  races,  in  which  action 
is  quick  to  follow  impulse,  surged  up  to  Madelon's 
head.  She  drew  the  hand  which  held  the  knife 
from  under  her  cloak  and  struck.  "Kiss  me 
again,  Burr  Gordon,  if  you  dare  !"  she  cried  out, 
and  her  cry  was  met  by  a  groan  as  he  fell  away 
from  her  into  the  snow. 


CHAPTER  IV 

MADELON  stood  for  a  second  looking  at  the 
dark,  prostrate  form  as  one  of  her  Iroquois  an 
cestors  might  have  looked  at  a  fallen  foe  before 
he  drew  his  scalping-knif e ;  then  suddenly  the 
surging  of  the  savage  blood  in  her  ears  grew  faint. 
She  fell  down  on  her  knees  beside  him.  "Have 
I  killed  you,  Burr  ?"  she  said,  and  bent  her  face 
down  to  his  —  and  it  was  not  Burr,  but  Lot 
Gordon  ! 

The  white,  peaked  face  smiled  up  at  her  out  of 
the  snow.  "You  haven't  killed  me  if  I  die, 
since  you  took  nje  for  Burr,"  whispered  Lot 
Gordon. 

"  Are  you  much  hurt  ?" 

"I — don't  know.  The  knife  has  gone  a  little 
way  into  my  side.  It  has  not  reached  my  heart, 
but  that  was  hurt  unto  death  already  by  life,  so 
this  matters  not." 

Madelon  felt  along  his  side  and  hit  the  handle 
of  the  clasp-knife,  firmly  fixed. 

"Don't  try  to  draw  it  out — you  cannot/'  said 
Lot,  and  his  pain  forced  a  groan  from  him.  "I'll 
live,  if  I  can,  till  the  wound  is  healed  for  the 


40  MADELON" 

sake  of  your  peace.  I'd  be  content  to  die  of  it, 
since  you  gave  it  in  vengeance  for  another  man's 
kiss,  if  it  were  not  for  you.  But  they  shall  never 
know — they  shall  never — know. "  Lot's  voice  died 
away  in  a  faint  murmur  between  his  parted  lips  ; 
his  eyes  stared  up  with  no  meaning  in  them  at 
the  wintry  stars. 

Madelon  ran  back  on  the  road  to  the  village, 
taking  great  leaps  through  the  snow,  straining 
her  eyes  ahead.  Now  and  then  she  cried  out 
hoarsely,  as  if  she  really  saw  some  one,  "  Hullo ! 
hullo  !"  At  the  curve  of  the  road  she  turned  a 
headlong  corner  and  ran  roughly  against  a  man 
who  was  hurrying  towards  her ;  and  this  time  it 
was  Burr  Gordon. 

Burr  reeled  back  with  the  shock  ;  then  his  face 
peered  into  hers  with  fear  and  wonder.  "Is  it 
you  ?"  he  stammered  out.  "What  is  the  mat 
ter  r 

But  Madelon  caught  his  arm  in  a  hard  grip. 
"  Come,  quick  I"  she  gasped,  and  pulled  him 
along  the  road  after  her. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?"  Burr  demanded,  half 
yielding  and  half  resisting. 

Madelon  faced  him  suddenly  as  they  sped 
along.  "I  met  your  cousin  Lot  just  below  here 
and  he  kissed  me,  and  I  took  him  for  you  and 
stabbed  him,  if  you  must  know,"  she  sobbed  out, 
dryly. 

Burr  gave  a  choking  cry  of  horror. 


MADELOtf  41 

"I  think  I — have  killed  him,"  said  she,  and 
pulled  him  on  faster. 

"And  you  meant  to  kill  me  ?" 

"Yes,  I  did." 

"  I  wish  to  God  you  had  I"  Burr  cried  out,  with 
a  sudden  fierce  anger  at  himself  and  her ;  and 
now  he  hurried  on  faster  than  she. 

Lot  was  quite  motionless  when  they  reached 
him.  Burr  threw  himself  down  in  the  snow  and 
leaned  his  ear  to  his  cousin's  heart.  Madelon 
stood  over  them,  panting.  Suddenly  a  merry 
roulade  of  whistling  broke  the  awful  stillness. 
Two  men  were  coming  down  the  road  whistling 
"  Roy's  Wife  of  Alidivalloch  "  as  clearly  soft  and 
sweet  as  flutes,  accented  with  human  gayety  and 
mirth. 

On  came  the  merry  whistlers.  Burr  sprang 
up  and  grasped  Madelon  Hautville's  arm.  "  He 
isn't  dead,"  he  whispered,  hoarsely.  "Some 
body's  coming.  Go  home,  quick  I" 

But  Madelon  looked  at  him  with  despairing 
obstinacy.  "  I'll  stay,"  said  she. 

"  I  tell  you,  go  I  Somebody  is  coming.  I'll 
get  help.  I'll  send  for  the  doctor.  Go  home  !" 

"No!" 

"  Oh,  Madelon,  if  you  have  ever  loved  me,  go 
home  !" 

Madelon  turned  away  at  that.  "  I'll  be  there 
when  they  come  for  me,"  said  she,  and  went 
swiftly  down  the  road  and  out  of  sight  in  the 


42  MADELON" 

converging  distance  of  trees,  with  the  snow  muf 
fling  her  footsteps. 

When  she  reached  home  she  groped  her  way 
into  the  living-room,  which  was  lighted  only  by 
the  low,  red  gleam  of  the  coals  on  the  hearth. 
Her  father's  gruff  voice  called  out  from  the  bed 
room  beyond:  "  That  you,  Madelon?" 

"Yes,"  said  she.,  and  lighted  a  candle  at  the 
coals. 

"  Have  the  boys  come  ?" 

"No." 

Madelon  went  up  the  steep  stairs  to  her  cham 
ber,  but  before  she  opened  her  door  her  brother 
Louis's  voice,  broken  with  pain,  besought  her  to 
come  into  his  room  and  bathe  his  sprained 
shoulder  for  him.  She  went  in,  set  the  candle 
on  the  table,  and  rubbed  in  the  cider-brandy  and 
wormwood  without  a  word.  Louis,  in  the  midst 
of  his  pain,  kept  looking  up  wonderingly  at  his 
sister's  face.  It  looked  as  if  it  were  frozen.  She 
did  not  seem  to  see  him.  Nothing  about  her 
seemed  alive  but  her  gently  moving  hands. 

Suddenly  he  gave  a  startled  cry.  "What's 
that  ?  Have  you  cut  your  hand,  Madelon  ?" 
Madelon  glanced  at  her  hand,  and  there  was  a 
broad  red  stain  over  the  palm  and  three  of  her 
fingers. 

"  No,"  said  she,  and  went  on  rubbing. 

t '  But  it  looks  like  blood  !"  cried  Louis,  knit 
ting  his  pale  brows  at  her. 


MADELON  43 

Madelon  made  no  reply. 

"Madelon,  what  is  that  on  your  hand?" 

"Blood." 

"  How  came  it  there?" 

"You'll  know  to-morrow."  Madelon  put  the 
stopper  in  the  cider-brandy  and  wormwood  bot 
tle  ;  then  she  covered  up  the  wounded  arm  and 
went  out. 

"Madelon,  what  is  it?  What  is  the  matter? 
What  ails  you?"  Louis  called  after  her. 

"  You'll  know  to-morrow,"  said  she,  and  shut 
her  chamber  door,  which  was  nearly  opposite 
Louis's.  His  youngest  brother  Richard  occupied 
the  same  room,  having  his  little  cot  at  the  other 
side,  under  the  window.  When  he  came  in,  an 
hour  later,  Louis  turned  to  him  eagerly. 

"Has  anything  happened?"  he  demanded. 

The  boy's  face,  which  was  always  so  like  his 
sister's,  had  the  same  despair  in  it  now.  "  Don't 
know  of  anything  that's  happened,"  he  returned, 
surlily. 

"What  ails  Madelon?" 

"I  tell  you  I  don't  know."  Richard  would 
say  no  more.  He  blew  out  his  candle  and  tum 
bled  into  bed,  turned  his  face  to  the  window  and 
lay  awake  until  an  hour  before  dawn.  Then  he 
arose,  dressed  himself,  and  went  down-stairs.  He 
put  more  wood  on  the  hearth  fire,  then  knelt 
down  before  it,  and  puffed  out  his  boyish  cheeks 
at  the  bellows  until  the  new  flames  crept  through 


44  MADELON 

the  smoke.  Then  he  lighted  the  lantern,  and 
went  to  the  barn  to  milk  and  feed  the  stock. 
That  was  always  Richard's  morning  task.,  and 
he  always  on  his  way  thither  replenished  the 
hearth  fire,  that  his  sister  Madelon  might  have 
a  lighter  and  speedier  task  at  preparing  break 
fast.  Madelon  usually  arose  a  half-hour  after 
Richard,  and  she  was  not  behindhand  this  morn 
ing.  She  entered  the  great  living-room,  lit 
the  candles,  and  went  about  getting  breakfast. 
Human  daily  needs  arise  and  set  on  tragedy  as 
remorselessly  as  the  sun. 

Madelon  Hautville,  who  had  washed  but  a  few 
hours  ago  the  stain  of  murder  from  her  hand,  in 
whose  heart  was  an  unsounded  depth  of  despair, 
mixed  up  the  corn-meal  daintily  with  cream,  and 
baked  the  cakes  which  her  father  and  brothers 
loved  before  the  fire,  and  laid  the  table.  She 
had  always  attended  to  the  needs  of  the  males  of 
her  family  with  the  stern  faithfulness  of  an  Ind 
ian  squaw.  Now,  as  she  worked,  the  wonder, 
softer  than  her  other  emotions,  was  upon  her  as 
to  how  they  would  get  on  when  she  was  in  prison 
and  after  she  was  dead  ;  for  she  made  no  doubt 
that  she  had  killed  Lot  Gordon  and  the  sheriff 
would  be  there  presently  for  her, -and  she  felt 
plainly  the  fretting  of  the  rope  around  her  soft 
neck.  She  hoped  they  would  not  come  for  her 
until  breakfast  was  prepared  and  eaten,  the 
dishes  cleared  away,  and  the  house  tidied ;  but 


MADELON  45 

she  listened  like  a  savage  for  a  foot-fall  and  a 
hand  at  the  door.  She  had  packed  a  little  bun 
dle  ready  to  take  with  her  before  she  left  her 
chamber.  Her  cloak  and  hood  were  laid  out  on 
the  bed. 

When  she  sat  down  at  the  table  with  her  fa 
ther  and  brothers,  all  of  them  except  Eichard 
and  Louis  stared  at  her  with  open  amazement 
and  questioned  her.  Kichard  and  Louis  stared 
furtively  at  their  sisters  face,  as  stiff,  set,  and 
pale  as  if  she  were  dead,  but  they  asked  no  ques 
tions.  Madelon  said,  in  a  voice  that  was  not  hers, 
that  she  was  not  sick,  and  put  pieces  of  Indian 
cake  into  her  untasting  mouth  and  listened.  But 
breakfast  was  well  over  and  the  dishes  put  away 
before  anybody  came.  And  then  it  was  not  the 
sheriff  to  hale  her  to  prison  on  a  charge  of  mur 
der,  but  an  old  man  from  the  village  big  with 
news. 

He  was  a  relative  of  the  Hautvilles,  an  uncle 
on  the  mother's  side,  old  and  broken,  scarcely 
able  to  find  his  feeble  way  on  his  shrunken  legs 
through  the  snow  ;  but,  with  the  instinct  of  gos 
sip,  the  sharp  nose  for  his  neighbors'  affairs,  still 
alert  in  him,  he  had  arisen  at  dawn  to  canvass 
the  village,  and  had  come  thither  at  first,  since 
he  anticipated  that  he  might  possibly  have  the 
delight  of  bringing  the  intelligence  before  any  of 
the  family  had  heard  it  elsewhere.  He  came  in, 
dragging  his  old,  snow-laden  feet,  tapping  heavi- 


46  MADELON 

ly  with  his  stout  stick,  and  settled,  cackling,  into 
a  chair. 

"  Heard  the  news?"  queried  Uncle  Luke  Bas 
set,  his  eyes,  like  black  sparks,  twinkling  rapidly 
at  all  their  faces. 

Madelon  set  the  cups  and  saucers  on  the 
dresser. 

"We  don't  have  any  time  for  anybody's  busi 
ness  but  our  own/7  quoth  David  Hautville,  gruff 
ly.  He  did  not  like  his  wife's  uncle.  He  was 
tightening  a  string  in  his  bass-viol ;  he  pulled  it 
as  he  spoke,  and  it  gave  out  a  fierce  twang. 
Louis  sat  moodily  over  the  fire  with  his  painful 
arm  in  wet  bandages.  Richard  was  whittling 
kindling-wood,  with  nervous  speed,  beside  him. 
Eugene  and  Abner  were  cleaning  their  guns. 
They  all  looked  at  the  eager  old  man  except 
Richard  and  Louis  and  Madelon. 

"  Burr  Gordon  has  killed  Lot  so's  to  get  his 
property/'  proclaimed  the  old  man,  and  his  voice 
broke  with  eager  delight  and  importance. 

Madelon  gave  a  cry  and  sprang  forward  in 
front  of  him.  "  It's  a  lie!"  she  shouted. 

The  old  man  laughed  in  her  face.  "  No,  'tain't, 
Madelon.  You're  showin'  a  Christian  sperrit  to 
etan'  up  for  him  when  he's  jilted  ye  for  another 
gal,  but  'tain't  a  lie.  His  knife,  with  his  name 
on  to  it,  was  a-stickin'  out  of  Lot's  side." 

"It's  a  lie  !  I  killed  him  with  my  brother  Rich 
ard's  knife!" 


MADELON  47 

The  old  man  shrank  back  before  her  in  incred 
ulous  horror.  The  great  bass-viol  fell  to  the 
ground  like  a  woman  as  David  strode  forward 
and  Abner  and  Eugene  turned  their  shocked,, 
white  faces  from  their  guns. 

"  I  killed  him  with  Richard's  knife/'  repeated 
Madelon. 

Richard  got  up  and  came  around  before  her, 
thrusting  his  hand  in  his  pocket.  He  pulled 
out  his  own  clasp-knife  and  brandished  it  in  her 
face.  "Here  is  my  knife/'  he  cried,  fiercely — 
"my  knife,  with  my  name  cut  in  the  handle. 
Say  you  killed  Lot  Gordon  with  it  again  I" 

Madelon  snatched  the  knife  out  of  her  broth 
er's  hand  and  looked  at  it  with  straining  eyes. 
There,  indeed,  was  a  rude  "R.  H."  cut  in  the 
horn  handle.  She  gasped.  "What  does  this 
mean  ?"  she  cried  out. 

"It  means  you  have  lost  your  wits,"  answered 
Richard,  contemptuously ;  but  his  eyes  on  his 
sister's  face  were  full  of  pleading  agony. 

"  What  knife  did  you  give  me  when  I  started 
home  last  night  ?" 

" I  gave  you  no  knife." 

Old  Luke  Basset  asserted  himself  again.  "  The 
gal's  lost  her  balance,"  he  said.  "  It  was  Burr 
Gordon's  knife,  with  his  name  cut  into  it,  that 
was  stickin'  out  of  Lot  Gordon's  side." 

"Is  Lot  Gordon  dead?"  Louis  demanded, 
hoarsely. 


48  MADELOtf 

"No,  he  ain't  dead,  but  the  doctor  thinks  he 
can't  live  long.  Ephraim  Steele  and  Eleazer 
Hooper  were  a-goin'  home  from  the  ball  when 
they  come  right  on  Lot  layin'  side  of  the  road 
and  Burr  a-tryin'  to  draw  his  knife  out.,  so  it 
shouldn't  testify  against  him." 

"It's  a  lie  !"  Madelon  groaned.  "Burr  Gor 
don  did  not  kill  him.  It  was  I  !  He  met  me, 
and  tried  to  —  kiss  me,  and  —  the  knife  was  in  my 
hand  —  Eichard  made  me  take  it  because  I  was 
coming  home  alone,  and  there  had  been  rumors 
of  a  bear." 

"  I  did  not,"  persisted  Richard,  doggedly.  "  I 
did  not  make  her  take  my  knife.  Here  is  my 
knife,  with  my  name  cut  in  the  handle." 

Madelon  turned  on  him  fiercely.  "You  did, 
you  know  you  did  !"  said  she. 

"  Here  is  my  knife,  with  my  name  cut  on  the 
handle." 

"You  gave  me  a  knife  as  I  was  coming  out  of 
the  tavern." 

"No,  I  did  not." 

"You  did,  and  I  killed  him  with  it.  It  was 
not  Burr  1  I  ran  for  help,  and  I  met  Burr,  and 
I  told  him  what  I  had  done,  and  he  went  back 
with  me  to  Lot.  Then  he  sent  me  home  when 
he  heard  somebody  coming.  Ask  Lot  Gordon  if 
I  did  not  kill  him  ;  if  he  can  speak  he  can  tell 
you." 

There   won't   neither   him   nor  Burr  say  a 


" 


MADELON  49 

word/'  said  the  old  man,  "lout  there  was  Burr's 
knife  a-stickin'  into  Lot's  side,  with  his  name  cut 
into  it." 

Madelon  turned  sharply  to  Louis.  "You  saw 
the  blood  on  my  hand  when  I  was  rubbing  your 
arm  last  night/'  she  said. 

He  made  no  reply,  but  stared  gloomily  at  the 
fire. 

"Louis,  you  saw  Lot  Gordon's  blood  on  my 
hand  ?" 

Louis  sprang  up  with  an  oath,  and  pushed  past 
her  out  of  the  room. 

"Louis,"  Madelon  cried,  "tell  them  !" 

"She  is  trying  to  shield  Burr  Gordon  !"  Louis 
called  back,  fiercely,  and  the  closing  door  shook 
the  house  like  a  cannon-shot. 

"Where  is  Burr?"  Madelon  demanded  of  old 
Luke  Basset. 

"The  sheriff  took  him  to  New  Salem  to  jail 
this  morning,"  he  replied,  grinning. 

Madelon  gave  a  great  cry  and  started  to  rush 
out  of  the  room,  but  her  father  stood  in  her 
way. 

"Where  are  you  going  ?"  he  asked,  sternly. 

"'I  am  going  to  get  my  hood  and  cloak,  and 
then  I  am  going  to  Lot  Gordon's."  Her  father 
stood  aside,  aiid»she  went  out  and  up-stairs  to  her 
chamber-  She  took  up  the  red  cloak  which  lay 
on  her  bed,  and  examined  it  eagerly  to  see  if  by 
chance  there  was  a  blood  stain  thereon  to  prove 


50  MADELON 

her  guilt  and  Burr  Gordon's  innocence,  but  she 
could  find  none.  She  had  flung  it  back  when 
she  struck.  She  looked  also  carefully  at  her  pret 
ty  ball  gown,  but  the  black  fabric  showed  no  stain. 

When  she  went  down -stairs  with  her  cloak  and 
hood  on  old  Luke  Basset  was  gone,,  and  so  were 
her  brothers.  Her  father  stood  waiting  for  her, 
and  he  had  on  his  fur  cap  and  his  heavy  cloak. 
He  came  forward  and  took  her  firmly  by  the 
arm.  "Fm  going  with  you  to  Lot  Gordon's," 
said  he.  And  they  went  out  together  and  up  the 
road,  he  still  keeping  a  firm  hand  on  his  daugh- 
ters's  arm,  and  neither  spoke  all  the  way  to  Lot 
Gordon's  house. 

When  they  reached  it  David  Hautville  opened 
the  door  without  touching  the  knocker,  and 
strode  in  with  Madelon  following.  Old  Margaret 
Bean  was  just  passing  through  the  entry  with  a 
great  roll  of  linen  cloths  in  her  arms,  and  she 
stopped  when  she  saw  them. 

"  How  is  he  ?"  whispered  David,  hoarsely. 

"He's  pretty  low,"  returned  Margaret  Bean, 
at  the  same  time  nodding  her  head  cautiously 
towards  the  door  on  her  right.  Long,  smooth 
loops  of  sallow  hair  fell  from  Margaret  Bean's 
clean  white  cap  over  her  cheeks,  which  looked  as 
if  they  had  been  scrubbed  and  rasped  red  with 
tears.  Her  own  gray  hair  was  strained  back  out 
of  sight — not  to  be  discovered,  even  when  there 
was  a  murder  in  the  house. 


.  MADELON  51 

"Does  he  know  anybody?"  queried  David 
Hautville. 

"  Just  as  well  as  ever  he  did."  Margaret  Bean 
rubtied  a  tear  dry  on  her  cheek  with  her  starched 
apron. 

"  We've  got  to  see  him,  then." 

' '  I  dunno  as  you  can — the  doctor — " 

"'I  don't  care  anything  about  the  doctor! 
We've  got  to  see  him!"  David's  voice  rang  out 
quite  loud  in  the  hush  of  murder  and  death 
which  seemed  to  fill  the  house.  Margaret  Bean 
stood  aside  with  a  scared  look.  David  Hautville 
threw  open  the  door  on  the  right,  and  he  and 
Madelon  went  in. 

Lot  Gordon's  eyes  turned  towards  them,  but 
not  his  head.  He  lay  as  still  in  bed  as  if  he  were 
already  dead,  and  his  long  body  raised  the  gay 
patchwork  quilt  in  a  stiff  ridge  like  a  grave. 

Madelon  went  close  to  him  and  bent  over  him. 
"Tell  who  stabbed  you,"  said  she,  in  a  sharp 
voice. 

Lot  looked  up  at  her,  and  a  red  flush  came 
over  his  livid  face. 

"Tell  who  stabbed  you." 

Lot  smiled  feebly,  but  he  did  not  speak. 

Margaret  Bean  came  in,  with  her  old  husband 
'shuffling  at  her  heels.  A  great  face,  bristling 
with  a  yellow  stubble  of  beard,  appeared  in  the 
door.  It  belonged  to  the  sheriff,  Jonas  Hapgood, 
who  had  just  returned  from  taking  Burr  to 


52  MADELON 

New  Salem.  Madelon  cast  a  desperate  glance 
around  at  them.  "Lot  Gordon/' she  cried  out, 
"tell  them — tell  them  I  was  the  one  who  stahbed 
you,  and  set  Burr  free  I" 

There  was  a  chuckle  from  Jonas  Hapgood  in 
the  door.  "Likely  story,"  he  muttered  to  Mar 
garet  Bean's  husband,  and  the  old  man  nodded 
wisely. 

"  Tell  them !"  commanded  Madelon.  She 
reached  out  a  hand  as  if  she  would  shake  Lot 
Gordon  into  obedience,  wounded  unto  death  al 
though  he  was,  but  Lot  only  smiled  up  in  her 
face. 

Then  David  Hautville  bent  his  stern  face  down 
to  the  sick  man's.  "Lot  Gordon,  tell  the  truth 
before  God,  daughter  of  mine  or  no  daughter  of 
mine/'  said  he,  in  his  deep  voice.  Lot  only  fol 
lowed  Madelon  with  his  longing,  smiling  eyes. 

"  Speak,  Lot  Gordon  !" 

The  wounded  man  turned  his  eyes  on  David 
and  made  a  feeble  motion,  scarcely  more  than  a 
quiver  of  his  hand,  which  seemed  to  express  nega 
tion. 

"Can't  you  speak?" 

Again  Lot  made  that  faint  signal. 

"  He  ain't  spoke  sence  they  brought  him  home," 
said  Margaret  Bead — "not  a  word  to  the  doctor 
nor  nobody." 

"I  couldn't  get  a  word  out  of  him,"  announced 
the  sheriif,  stepping  farther  into  the  room.  "  In 


MADELON  53 

course,  there  was  Burr's  knife  and  Burr  himself 
over  him  when  the  others  came  up,  and  that  was 
proof  enough ;  but  still  we  kinder  thought  we'd 
like  to  have  Lot's  word  for  it  afore  he  died,  in 
case  it  came  to  hangin'  with  Burr ;  but  I  guess 
he's  past  speakin'.  I  miss  my  guess  if  he  can 
sense  anything  we  say." 

"Tell  them  —  tell  them  I  was  the  one  who 
stabbed  you,  and  Burr  is  innocent  I"  Madelon 
pleaded  ;  but  he  smiled  back  at  her  unmoved. 

Jonas  Hapgood's  great  body  shook  with  mirth. 
"Likely  story  a  gal  did  it,"  he  chuckled. 

"I  did  do  it  \"  returned  Madelon,  fiercely,  turn 
ing  to  him. 

"I  guess  you  don't  want  your  beau  hung." 

"  I  tell  you  I  killed  this  man.  I  am  the  one  to 
be  hung !" 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  sheriff  turned  to  David  Hautville. 
"  Guess  you'd  better  take  your  gal  home/'  he 
said,  his  red,  bristling  cheeks  broad  with  laugh 
ter.  "  Guess  she's  kind  of  off  her  balance,  she 
feels  so  bad  about  her  beau." 

David's  black  eyes  flashed  haughtily  at  Jonas 
Hapgood,  who  straightened  his  face  suddenly. 
He  deigned  not  a  word  to  him,  but  he  turned  to 
his  daughter  with  a  stern  air.  "Whether  it  is 
one  way,  or  whether  it  is  the  other  way,"  said 
he,  "we  go  neither  by  staying  here.  Come 
home." 

"I  won't  go!" 

David  looked  sharply  at  his  daughter's  face. 
Jonas  Hapgood's  doubt  was  over  him  too.  He 
wondered,  with  a  great  spasm  of  wrath,  if  she 
could  be  accusing  herself  to  shield  this  man  who 
had  played  her  false. 

He  grasped  her  arm  again.  "  Come,"  he  said, 
"  I'll  have  no  more  of  this,"  and  Madelon  went  out 
with  her  father.  Full  of  spirit  as  she  was,  she 
had  always  been  strangely  docile  with  him.  He 
had  ruled  all  his  children  with  a  firm  hand  from 


MADELON  55 

their  youth  up,  and  tuned  their  wills  to  suit  his 
ear  as  he  did  his  viol  strings. 

"Til  have  no  foolery,"  he  said  to  her,  gruffly, 
when  they  were  out  on  the  road.  "Til  have  no 
putting  yourself  in  the  wrong  to  save  a  man  that's 
given  you  the  go-by.  If  ye  be  fooling  me,  ye  can 
stop  it  now  if  you're  a  daughter  of  mine."  He 
shook  his  head  fiercely  at  her. 

But  Madelon  answered  him  with  a  burst  of 
wrath  that  equalled  his  own.  "I  stabbed  him 
because  I  took  him  for  the  man  who  jilted  me 
a-trying  to  kiss  me,  with  Dorothy  Fair's  kiss  on 
his  Hps.  Me!"  she  cried;  and  she  raised  her 
hand  as  if  she  would  have  struck  again  had  Burr 
Gordon  and  his  false  lips  been  there. 

Her  father  looked  at  her  gloomily,  then  strode 
on  with  his  eyes  on  the  snowy  ground.  He  was 
still  in  doubt.  David  Hautville  had  that  primi 
tive  order  of  mind  which  distrusts  and  holds  in 
contempt  that  which  it  cannot  clearly  compre 
hend,  and  he  could  not  comprehend  womankind. 
His  sons  were  to  him  as  words  of  one  syllable  in 
straight  lines  ;  his  daughter  was  written  in  com 
pound  and  involved  sentences,  as  her  mother  had 
been  before  her.  Fond  and  proud  of  Madelon  as 
he  was,  and  in  spite  of  his  stern  anxiety,  her  word 
had  not  the  weight  with  him  that  one  of  his  son's 
would  have  had.  It  was  as  if  he  had  visions  of  end 
less  twistings  and  complexities  which  might  give 
it  the  lie,  and  rob  it,  at  all  events,  of  its  direct  force. 


56  MADELOK 

Indeed,  Madelon  strengthened  this  doubt  by 
crying  out  passionately  all  at  once,  as  they  went 
on:  "  Father,  you  must  believe  me  !  I  tell  you  I 
did  it !  I — don't  let  them  hang  him  !  Father  !" 
All  Madelon's  proud  fierceness  was  gone  for  a 
moment.  She  looked  up  at  her  father,  choking 
with  great  sobs. 

David  smiled  down  at  her  convulsed  face. 
"  She's  nothing  but  a  woman,"  he  thought  to 
himself,  and  he  thought  also,  with  a  throb  of 
angry  relief,  that  she  had  not  killed  Lot  Gordon. 
"  Come  along  home  and  red  up  the  house,  and 
let's  have  no  more  fooling,"  he  said,  roughly,  and 
strode  on  faster  and  would  not  say  another  word, 
although  Madelon  besought  him  hard  to  assure 
her  that  he  believed  her,  and  that  Burr  should 
not  be  hanged,  until  they  reached  the  Hautville 
house.  Then  he  turned  on  her  and  said,  with 
keen  sarcasm  that  stung  more  than  a  whip-lash, 
"'Tis  Parson  Fair's  daughter  and  not  mine  that 
should  come  down  the  road  in  broad  daylight 
a-bawling  for  Burr  Gordon." 

Madelon  started  back,  and  her  face  stiffened 
and  whitened.  She  shut  her  mouth  hard  and 
followed  her  father  into  the  house.  The  great 
living-room  was  empty;  indeed,  not  one  of  the 
Hautville  sons  was  in  the  house ;  even  Louis 
was  gone.  David  took  his  axe  out  of  the  corner 
and  set  out  for  the  woods  to  cut  some  cedar  fire- 
logs.  Madelon  put  the  house  in  order,,  setting 


MADELON  57 

the  kitchen  and  pantry  to  rights,  going  through 
the  icy  chambers  and  making  the  high  feather 
beds.  In  her  own  room  she  paused  long  and 
searched  again,,  holding  up  her  red  cloak  and  her 
ball  dress  to  the  window,,  where  they  caught  the 
wintry  light,  for  a  stain  of  blood  that  might  prove 
her  guilt ;  but  she  could  find  none. 

Madelon  prepared  dinner  for  her  father  and 
brothers  as  usual,  and  when  it  was  ready  to  be 
dished  she  stood  in  the  doorway,  with  the  north 
wind  buffeting  her  in  the  face,  and  blew  the  din 
ner-horn  with  a  blast  that  could  be  heard  far  off 
in  the  woods. 

Presently  her  father  emerged  from  under  the 
snowy  boughs  with  his  axe  over  his  shoulder, 
and  shortly  afterwards  Eugene  and  Abner  came, 
in  Indian  file,  with  their  guns.  Eugene  was  car 
rying  a  fat  rabbit  by  its  long  ears.  Louis  and 
Richard  did  not  come  at  all.  David  asked  stern 
ly  of  their  brothers  where  they  were,  but  neither 
Eugene  nor  Abner  knew.  They  had  not  seen 
them  since  David  and  Madelon  left  for  Lot  Gor 
don's  that  morning. 

Madelon  set  the  food  before  her  father  and  her 
brothers,  and  took  her  place  as  usual,  and  ate  as 
she  might  have  filled  a  crock  with  milk  or  cakes, 
tasting  nothing  which  she  put  into  her  mouth. 
She  did  not  during  the  meal  say  another  word 
concerning  the  tragedy  in  which  she  was  living, 
but  there  was  a  strange  silent  vehemence  and  fire 


58  MADELOtf 

about  her  which  seemed  louder  than  speech. 
Now  and  then  her  father  and  her  brothers  start 
ed  and  stared  at  her  as  if  she  had  cried  out. 
Two  red  spots  had  come  on  her  brown  cheeks ; 
her  eyes  were  glittering  with  dark  light;  her 
lips  were  a  firm  red ;  her  fingers  stiffened  with 
nervous  clutches.  She  looked  as  if  every  mus 
cle  in  her  were  strained  and  rigid  for  a  leap. 

After  dinner  Eugene  and  Abner  went  out  again 
with  their  guns,  and  David  smoked  his  old  pipe 
by  the  fire,  while  Madelon  put  away  the  dishes 
and  swept  the  floor.  When  her  work  was  finished 
the  pipe  was  smoked  out,  and  David  rose  up 
slowly,  clapped  his  fur  cap  over  his  white  head, 
and  took  up  his  axe. 

"Mind  ye  say  what  ye  said  this  morning  to 
nobody  else/'  he  said,  as  he  went  out  the  door. 

"  I'll  say  it  with  my  dying  breath,"  returned 
Madelon,  and  she  caught  her  breath,  as  if  it  were 
indeed  her  last,  as  she  spoke. 

"Accuse  yourself  of  murder,  would  ye,  and  be 
hung,  and  leave  your  own  kith  and  kin  with  no 
body  to  keep  house  for  them,  for  the  sake  of  a 
man  that's  left  ye  for  another  girl  \" 

"  Father,  I  tell  you  that  /  did  it  I" 

But  David  clapped  to  the  door  on  her  speech, 
and  the  awful  truth  of  it  seemed  to  smite  her  in 
her  own  face. 

Madelon  went  up-stairs,  and  brushed  and  braid 
ed  her  black  hair  before  her  glass ;  but  the  face 


MADELON  59 

therein  did  not  look  like  her  own  to  her,,  and  she 
felt  all  the  time  as  if  she  were  braiding  and 
wreathing  the  hair  around  another's  head.  One 
of  those  deeds  had  she  committed  which  lead  a 
man  to  see  suddenly  the  stranger  that  abides  al 
ways  in  his  flesh  and  in  his  own  soul,  and  makes 
him  realize  that  of  all  the  millions  of  earth  there 
is  not  one  that  he  knows  not  better  than  his 
own  self,  nor  whose  face  can  look  so  strange  to 
him  in  the  light  of  his  own  actions. 

Madelon  put  her  red  cloak  over  her  shoulders 
as  she  might  have  put  it  on  a  lay-figure,  and  tied 
on  her  hood.  Then  she  went  down-stairs,  out  of 
the  house  to  the  barn,  and  put  the  side-saddle  on 
the  roan  mare. 

Not  another  woman  in  the  village,  and  scarcely 
a  man  except  the  Hautville  sons,  would  have 
dared  to  ride  this  roan,  with  the  backward  roll  of 
her  vicious  eyes  and  her  wicked,  flat-laid  ears; 
but  Madelon  Hautville  could  not  be  thrown. 

The  mare,  when  she  was  saddled,  danced  an 
iron-bound  dance  in  the  barn  bay,  but  Madelon 
bade  her  stand  still,  and  she  obeyed,  her  nostrils 
quivering,  the  breath  coming  from  them  in  a 
snort  of  smoke,  and  every  muscle  under  her  roan 
hide  vibrating. 

Then  Madelon  pla'ced  her  foot  in  the  stir 
rup,  and  was  in  the  saddle,  pulling  the  bit  hard 
against  the  jaw,  and  the  mare  shot  out  of  the 
barn  with  a  fierce  lash-out  of  her  heels  and  an 


60  MADELON 

upheaval  of  her  gaunt  roan  flanks  that  threatened 
to  dash  the  girl's  head  against  the  lintel  of  the 
door. 

But  Madelon  knew  with  what  she  had  to  do, 
and  she  bent  low  in  the  saddle  and  passed  out  in 
safety.  Then  she  spared  not  the  mare  for  nigh 
three  miles  on  the  New  Salem  road.  It  was  ten 
miles  to  New  Salem,  and  it  did  not  take  long  to 
reach  it,  riding  a  horse  who  went  at  times  as  if 
all  the  fiends  were  in  chase.,  and  often  sprang  out 
like  a  bow  into  the  wayside  bushes,  and  was  oft' 
with  a  new  spurt  of  vicious  terror.  It  was  still 
far  from  sundown  when  Madelon  Hautville  tied 
the  roan  outside  the  jail  where  Burr  Gordon  lay. 

Burr  was  sitting  in  his  cell,  which  was  nothing 
but  a  rough  chamber  with  whitewashed  walls 
and  a  grated  window.  It  was  furnished  with  a 
bed,  a  table,  and  a  chair.  He  had  an  inkstand 
and  a  great  sheet  of  paper  on  the  table,  and  he 
was  writing  a  letter  when  the  bolt  shot  and  the 
jailer  entered  with  Madelon  Hautville. 

Burr  looked  at  her  with  a  white,  incredulous 
face.  Then  he  started  up  and  came  forward, 
but  Madelon  did  not  look  at  him.  She  turned 
to  the  jailer,  Alvin  Mead.  "I  want  to  see  him 
alone,"  said  she,  imperatively. 

"It's  again  my  orders,"  said  the  jailer.  He 
was  a  great  man,  with  an  arm  like  a  crow-bar. 
He  was  reputed  to  have  used  it  as  one  many  a 
time  at  a  house-raising. 


MADELON  61 

"  Fve  got  to  see  him  alone  I" 

"  He's  in  here  on  a  charge  of  murder,  and  it's 
again  my  orders,"  repeated  Alvin  Mead,  like  a 
parrot. 

"Fve  got  to  see  him  alone!" 

Alvin  Mead  looked  at  her  irresolutely  with  his 
stupid  light  eyes ;  then  all  his  great  system  of 
bone  and  muscle  seemed  to  back  out  of  the  room 
before  her.  He  shut  the  door  after  him,  and 
they  heard  the  bolt  slide. 

Madelon  turned  to  Burr.  "Tell  them,"  she 
gasped  out — "tell  them  it  was — I !" 

Burr  did  not  speak  for  a  minute;  he  stood 
looking  at  her.  "Perhaps  I  am  not  any  too 
much  of  a  man,"  he  said,  slowly,  at  length,  "but 
you  ask  me  to  be  a  good  deal  less  of  a  man  than 
I  am." 

Madelon  did  not  seem  to  hear  him.  "  I  have 
told  them  I  did  it !  I  have  told  them  all,"  said 
she,  "but  they  won't  believe  me — they  won't  be 
lieve  me  !  You  must  tell  them." 

"I  will  die  before  I  will  tell  them,"  said  Burr 
Gordon. 

Madelon  looked  at  his  white  face,  which  was 
set  against  hers  like  a  rock ;  then  she  gave  a 
great  cry  and  fell  down  on  her  knees  before  him. 
"  Tell  them,"  she  moaned,  "  or  they  will  hang 
you — they  will  hang  you,  Burr  !" 

"  Let  them  hang  me,  then  !" 

' '  Tell  them ;  they  won't  believe  me  !" 


62  MADELON 

Burr  caught  hold  of  her  two  arms  and  raised 
her  to  her  feet.  "  See  here,  Madelon,"  said  he, 
"  don't  you  know — " 

She  looked  at  him  dumbly. 

"  Don't  you  know — I  would  not  tell  them  if 
they  would,  but — I  might  tell  them  until  I  was 
gray,  and  they  would  not  believe  me.  \" 

Madelon  cried  out  sharply,  as  if  she  in  her 
turn  had  been  struck  to  the  heart. 

"  It  is  true,"  Burr  said,  quietly. 

"  Then  if  he  dies  without  telling,  there  is  no 
way  of — saving  you — " 

Burr  shook  his  head. 

"The  knife — how — came  your  knife  there  in 
stead  of  Kichard's  ?" 

Burr  smiled. 

Bluish  shadows  came  around  Madelon's  dark 
eyes  and  her  mouth.  She  gasped  for  breath  as 
she  spoke.  "I — have — killed  you,  then,"  said 
she.  Suddenly  she  put  up  her  white,  stiffly 
quivering  lips  to  Burr's.  ' '  Kiss  me  I"  she  cried 
out.  "  I  beg  you  to  give  me  the  kiss  that  I  might 
have  killed  you  for  last  night !" 

Burr  bent  down  and  kissed  her,  and  she  threw 
her  arms  around  him  and  pressed  his  head  to 
her  bosom.  "  They  shall  not,"  she  cried  out, 
fiercely — "they  shall  not  hang  you  !  I  will  make 
them  believe  me !  Don't  be  afraid,  don't  be 
afraid,  Burr." 

"Madelon,"  Burr  said,  huskily,  "I  have  been 


MADELON  63 

double-faced  and  false  to  you,  but,  as  God  is  my 
witness,  Fm  glad  Fve  got  the  chance  to  suffer 
in  your  stead." 

"  You  shall  not !  They  shall  believe  I  did  it. 
I  will  make  Lot  Gordon  tell.  He  shall  tell  be 
fore  he  dies  I" 

The  bolt  slid  back,  and  Alvin  Mead's  great 
bulk  darkened  the  doorway.  Madelon  turned 
her  face  towards  him,  with  her  arms  still  clasping 
Burr  and  holding  his  head  to  her  bosom.  ' '  This 
man  is  innocent !"  she  cried  out,  with  a  fierce 
gesture  of  protection,  as  if  she  were  defending 
her  young  instead  of  her  false  lover.  "  I  tell  you 
he  is  innocent — you  must  let  him  go  !  I  am  the 
one  who  stabbed  Lot  Gordon  !" 

Alvin  Mead  stared;  his  heavy  pink  jaw 
lopped. 

"  I  tell  you,  you  must  let  him  go  !"  She  released 
Burr  from  her  arms  and  gave  him  a  push  towards 
the  door.  "Go' out,"  she  said;  "I  am  the  one 
to  stay  here." 

But  Alvin  Mead  collected  and  brought  about 
his  great  body  with  a  show  of  lumbering  fists. 
"Come,"  said  he,  "this  ain't  a-goin  to  do.  We 
can't  have  no  sech  work  as  this,  young  woman. 
It's  time  you  went." 

"Let  him  go,  I  tell  you  !" commanded  Made- 
Ion,  confronting  him  fiercely.  "  I  am  going  to 
stay." 

"  They  won't  let  you  come  again  if  you  don't 


64  MADELON 

go  quietly  now/'  Burr  whispered,  and  he  laid  his 
hand  on  her  nervous  shoulder. 

"  I  ruther  guess  we  won't  have  no  sech  doin's 
again/'  said  Alvin  Mead,  with  sulky  assent. 

"  You  must  go,  Madelon." 

Madelon  tied  on  her  hood.  Her  white  face 
had  its  rigid,  desperate  look  again. 

"I  will  make  them  believe  me  yet,  and  you 
shall  be  set  free,"  she  said  to  Burr,  with  a  stern 
nod,  and  passed  out,  while  Alvin  Mead  stood 
back  to  give  her  passage,  watching  her  with  sul 
len  and  wary  eyes.  He  was,  in  truth,  half  afraid 
of  hero 


CHAPTER  VI 

WHEN"  Madelon,  returning  from  New  Salem, 
came  in  sight  of  her  home  the  first  thing  which 
she  noticed  was  her  father  in  the  yard  in  front  of 
the  house. 

David  Hautville's  great  figure  stood  out  in  the 
dusk  of  the  snowy  landscape  like  a  giant's.  He 
was  motionless.  The  roan  mare's  gallop  had  evi 
dently  struck  his  ear  some  time  before,  and  he 
knew  that  Madelon  was  returning.  He  did  not 
even  look  her  way  as  she  drew  nearer,  but  when 
she  rode  into  the  yard  he  made  a  swift  movement 
forward  and  seized  the  mare  by  the  bridle.  She 
reared,  but  Madelon  sat  firm,  with  wretched,  un 
daunted  eyes  upon  her  father.  David  Haut- 
ville's  eyes  blazed  back  at  her  out  of  the  white 
ness  of  his  wrath. 

' '  Where  have  you  been  ?"  he  demanded,  in  a 
thick  voice. 

"To  New  Salem." 

"What  for?" 

' '  To  see  Burr,  and  beg  him  to  confess  that  I 
killed  Lot." 

"You  didn't." 


66  MADELON 

"I  did." 

"  Fool !"  David  Hautville  jerked  the  bridle  so 
fiercely  that  the  mare  reared  far  back  again.  He 
jerked  her  down  to  her  feet,  and  she  made  a 
vicious  lunge  at  him,  but  he  shunted  her  away. 

"  I'll  fasten  you  into  your  chamber,"  he  shout 
ed,  "if  this  work  goes  on!  Til  stop  your  mak 
ing  a  fool  of  yourself." 

"It  is  Lot  Gordon  that  is  making  fools  of  yon 
all/7  said  Madelon,  in  a  hard,  quiet  voice. 

"Did  Burr  Gordon  say  he  didn't  stab  him?" 
cried  her  father. 

"No;  he  wouldn't  own  it.  He  is  trying  to 
shield  me." 

"He  did  it  himself,  and  he'll  hang  for  it." 

"No,  he  won't  hang  for  what  I  did  while  I 
draw  the  breath  of  life.  I've  got  the  strength  of 
ten  in  me.  You  don't  know  me,  if  I  am  your 
daughter."  Madelon  freed  her  bridle  with  a 
quick  movement,  and  the  mare  flew  forward  into 
the  barn. 

David  Hautville  stood  looking  after  her  in  utter 
fury  and  bewilderment.  Her  last  words  rang  in 
his  ears  and  seemed  true  to  him.  He  felt  as  if  he 
did  not  know  his  own  daughter.  This  awaken 
ing  and  lashing  into  action,  by  the  terrible  press 
ure  of  circumstances,  of  strange  ancestral  traits 
which  he  had  himself  transmitted  was  beyond 
his  simple  comprehension.  He  shook  his  head 
with  a  fierce  helplessness  and  went  into  the  barn. 


MADELON  67 

"  Go  in  and  get  the  supper,"  he  ordered,  "and 
I'll  take  care  of  the  mare." 

As  Madelon  came  out  of  the  stall  he  grasped 
her  roughly  by  the  arm  and  peered  sharply  into 
her  face.  The  thought  seized  him  that  she  must 
surely  not  be  in  her  right  mind — that  Burr's 
treatment  of  her  and  his  danger  had  turned  her 
brain.  "Be  you  crazy,  Madelon?"  he  asked,  in 
his  straightforward  simplicity,  and  there  was  an 
accent  of  doubt  and  pity  in  his  voice. 

"No,  father,"  she  replied,  "I  am  not  crazy. 
Let  me  go." 

She  broke  away  from  him  and  was  out  of  the 
barn  door,  but  suddenly  she  turned  and  came 
running  back.  The  sudden  softness  in  his  voice 
had  stirred  the  woman  in  her  to  weakness.  She 
went  close  to  her  father,  and  threw  up  her  arms 
around  his  great  neck,  and  clung  to  him,  and 
sobbed  as  if  she  would  sob  her  soul  away,  and 
pleaded  with  him  as  for  her  life. 

"  Father  !"  she  cried — "  father,  help  me !  Be 
lieve  me !  Tell  them  I  did  it !  Tell  them  it  is 
true !  Don't  let  them  hang  Burr.  Help  me  to 
save  him,  father  !  Don't  let  them  !  Save  him  ! 
Oh,  you  will  save  him,  father  ?  You  will  ?  Tell 
me,  father — tell  me,  tell  me  !"  Madelon's  voice 
rose  into  a  wild  shriek. 

A  sudden  conviction  of  his  solution  of  the 
matter  and  of  his  own  astuteness  came  over 
David  Hautville's  primitive  masculine  intelli- 


68  MADELON 

gence.  His  daughter  was  wellnigh  distraught 
with  her  lover's  faithlessness  and  his  awful  crime 
and  danger.  She  was  to  be  watched  and  guard 
ed  lest  she  make  a  further  spectacle  of  herself; 
but  treated  softly  as  might  be,  for  she  was  naught 
but  a  woman,  and  liable  to  mischievous  ailments 
of  nerve  and  brain.  David  pressed  his  daugh 
ter's  dark  head  with  his  hard,  tender  hand  against 
his  shoulder,  then  forced  her  gently  away  from 
him. 

"  It'll  be  all  right,"  said  he,  soothingly— "  it'll 
be  all  right.  Don't  you  worry." 

" Father,  you  will?" 

"  I'll  fix  it  all  right.     Don't  you  worry." 

"  Father,  you  promise  ?" 

"I'll  do  everything  I  can.  Don't  you  worry, 
Madelon.  You'd  better  go  in  and  get  supper 
now.  I'll  go  along  to  the  house  with  you  and 
get  the  lantern.  It's  getting  too  dark  to  do  the 
work  here." 

David  drew  his  daughter  along,  out  of  the  barn, 
across  the  snowy  yard  to  the  house,  she  pleading 
frantically  all  the  way,  he  soothing  her  with  his 
sudden  wisdom  of  assent  and  evasion. 

The  hearth  fire  was  blazing  high  when  Made- 
Ion  entered  the  kitchen.  The  red  glare  of  it 
was  on  her  white  face,  upturned  to  her  father's 
with  one  last  pleading  of  despair.  She  clutched 
his  arm  and  shook  his  great  frame  to  and  fro. 

"Father,  promise  me  you'll  go  over  to  New 


MADELON  69 

Salem  to-night  and  tell  them  to  set  him  free  and 
take  me  instead  !  Father  \" 

"  We'll  see  about  it,  Madelon,"  answered  David 
Hautville.  There  was  a  tone  in  his  voice  which 
she  had  never  heard  before.  It  might  have  come 
unconsciously  to  himself  from  some  memory,  so 
old  that  it  was  itself  forgotten,  of  his  dead  wife's 
voice  over  the  child  in  her  cradle.  Some  echo 
of  it  might  have  yet  lingered  in  the  old  father's 
soul,  through  something  finer  than  his  instinct 
for  sweet  sounds  from  human  throat  and  viol — 
through  his  ear  for  love. 

"  Get  the  supper  now,  and  we'll  see  about  it," 
said  David  Hautville.  He  began  fumbling  with 
clumsy  fingers,. all  unused  to  women's  gear,  at 
the  string  of  his  daughter's  cloak ;  but  she  pulled 
herself  away  from  him  suddenly,  and  the  old 
hard  lines  came  into  her  face.  "We'll  say  no 
more  about  it,"  said  she.  She  lit  a  candle  quick 
ly  at  the  hearth  fire,  and  was  out  of  the  room  to 
put  away  her  cloak  and  hood.  Her  father  light 
ed  his  lantern  slowly  and  went  back  to  the  barn, 
plodding  meditatively  through  the  snowy  track, 
with  the  melting  mood  still  strong  upon  him. 
He 'was  disposed  to  carry  matters  now  with  a 
high  and  tender  hand  with  the  girl  to  bring  her 
to  reason,  and  he  brought  all  his  crude  diplomacy 
to  bear  upon  the  matter. 

When  he  reached  the  barn  his  son  Eugene 
stood  in  the  doorway.  He  had  just  come  from 


70  MADELON 

the  woods,  and  the  smell  of  wounded  cedar-trees 
was  strong  about  him.  He  stood  leaning  upon 
his  axe  as  if  it  were  a  staff.  "Who's  been  out 
with  the  mare?"  he  asked. 

"Your  sister." 

"Where?" 

"To  New  Salem." 

"To  see  Mm?" 

David  nodded  grimly.  His  lantern  cast  a  pale 
circle  of  light  on  the  snow  about  them. 

"About— that?" 

"To  get  him  to  own  up  she  did  it." 

Eugene  Hautville  stared  at  his  father,  scowl 
ing  his  handsome  dark  brows.  He  was  the  most 
graceful  mannered  of  all  the  Hautville  sons,  and 
by  some  accounted  the  best-looking. 

"Is  she  crazy  ?"  he  said. 

"No,  she's  a  woman,"  returned  his  father, 
with  a  strange  accent  of  contempt  and  tolera 
tion. 

"Did  the  coward  lay  it  to  her  when  she  gave 
him  the  chance  ?"  demanded  Eugene. 

"No;  she  said  he  wouldn't,  to  shield  her." 

Eugene  moved  his  axe  suddenly ;  the  lantern- 
light  struck  it,  and  there  was  a  bright  flash  of 
sharp  steel  in  their  eyes.  "  Shield  her  !"  he 
cried  out,  with  an  oath.  "  I  wish  I  could  meet 
him  in  the  path  once.  I'd  give  him  a  taste  be 
fore  they  put  the  rope  'round  his  neck,  the 
lying  murderer !" 


MADELON  71 

David  nodded  his  head  in  savage  assent. 

"What's  going  to  be  done  with  Madelon  ?" 
cried  Eugene,,  fiercely. 

"I've  been  thinking — "  said  his  father,  slowly. 

"No  sister  of  mine  shall  go  about  rolling 
herself  in  the  dust  at  that  fellow's  feet  if  I  can 
help  it." 

"I've  been  thinking — would  you  lock  her  in 
her  chamber  a  spell  ?" 

"  Lock  Madelon  in  her  chamber  !  She'd  get 
out  or  she'd  beat  her  brains  out  against  the 
wall." 

"I  don't  know  but  she  would/'  assented  Da 
vid,  perplexedly.  "You  can't  count  on  a  wom 
an  when  they  rise  up.  She  might  go  away  a 
spell." 

"  Where  ?" 

"We  might  send  her  somewhere." 

Eugene  laughed.  The  roan  mare  was  pawing 
in  her  stall.  Now  and  then  she  pounded  the 
floor  with  a  clattering  thud  like  an  iron  flail. 

"  How  far  do  yon  suppose  that  mare  would  go 
if  you  tried  to  send  her  anywhere  ?"  he  asked. 

"Maybe  Madelon  wouldn't  go." 

"  You'd  have  to  halter  the  mare,"  said  Eugene, 
"and  drag  her  half  the  way  and  stand  from 
under,  or  she'd  trample  you  down  the  other." 
Eugene,  although  his  words  were  strong,  spoke 
quite  softly,  lowering  his  sweet  tenor.  From 
where  they  stood  they  could  see  Madelon  mov- 


72  HADELOK 

ing  to  and  fro  behind  the  kitchen  windows  pre 
paring  supper. 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  do,"  said  David,  after  a 
pause. 

"  Watch  her,"  returned  Eugene,  quietly. 

"  Watch  her  ?" 

"  Yes.  I've  been  under  cover  days  before  now 
watching  for  a  pretty  white  fox  or  a  deer  I 
wanted."  Eugene  laughed  pleasantly. 

"Will  you?" 

"  I'll  stay  by  the  house  to-morrow.  She  sha'ir  t 
go  about  accusing  herself  of  murder  to  save  the 
man  that's  jilted  her  if  I  can  help  it."  As  he 
spoke  Eugene's  handsome  face  darkened  again 
vindictively.  He  hated  Burr  Gordon  for  another 
reason  of  his  own  that  nobody  suspected. 

Suddenly  Abner  Hautville  came  running  into 
the  yard.  "AVho  is  it  there?"  he  called  out. 
"Is  that  you,  father?  That  you,  Eugene? 
Hello !" 

"  Hello  !"  Eugene  called  back.  "  What's  the 
matter  ?" 

Abner  come  panting  alongside.  He  had  run 
from  the  village,  and,  vigorous  as  he  was,  breath 
came  hard  in  the  thin  air.  It  was  a  very  cold 
night. 

"Where  have  they  gone  ?"  he  demanded. 

"Who?" 

"  Louis  and  Richard.    Where  have  they  gone?" 

There  was  a  ghastly  look  in  Abner's  face,  in 


MADELOX  73 

spite  of  the  glowing  red  which  the  cold  wind 
had  brought  to  it.  The  other  man  seemed  to 
catch  it  and  reflect  it  in  their  own  faces  as  they 
stared  at  him.  <, 

Eugene  turned  quickly  to  his  father.  "  Aren't 
they  in  the  house  ?"  he  asked. 

"No,  they  ain't/'  returned  David,  with  his 
eyes  still  on  Abner's  face. 

"  Sure  they  ain't  up  chamber  ?" 

"No;  I  was  home  a  good  half -hour  before 
Madeloii  came.  There  wasn't  a  soul  in  the 
house,  and  nobody  could  have  come  home  since 
without  my  knowing  it." 

"  They  didn't  come  home  this  noon  either/' 
said  Eugene. 

"  Thought  you  said  they'd  gone  to  see  to  their 
traps  on  West  Mountain  ?"  David  rejoined. 

"Thought  they  had  when  they  didn't  come." 
Eugene  turned  impatiently  on  Abner.  "  Where 
do  you  think  they've  gone — what  do  you  mean 
by  looking  so  ?"  he  cried. 

Abner  dug  his  heel  into  the  snow.  "Don't 
know/'  he  returned,,  in  a  surly  voice. 

"What  do  you  suspect,  then?  Good  God! 
can't  you  speak  out  ?" 

Abner's  features  were  heavier  than  his  broth 
er's — his  speech  and  manner  slower.  He  paused 
a  second,  even  then ;  then  he  turned  towards 
the  house,  and  spoke,  with  his  face  away  from 
them,  with  a  curious  directness  and  taciturnity. 


74  MADELOK 

"Didn't  go  to  the  traps  on  West  Mountain/'  he 
said,  then;  "went  there  myself.  They  hadn't 
been  there — no  tracks ;  was  home  before  father 
was  to-night.  Louis  and  Richard  hadn't  come. 
Went  down  to  the  village ;  hadn't  been  there." 

"You  don't  mean  Louis  and  Richard  have  run 
away  ?"  demanded  David. 

"Both  their  guns  and  their  powder-horns  and 
shot-bags  are  gone/'  said  Abner. 

"They  would  have  taken  them  anyway/'  said 
Louis. 

"The  chest  in  Louis's  chamber  is  unlocked 
and  the  money  he  kept  in  the  till  is  gone,  and  his 
fiddle  is  gone,  and  the  cider-brandy  and  worm 
wood  bottle  to  bathe  his  arm  with,  and  two 
shoulders  of  pork  out  of  the  cellar,  and  a  sack 
of  potatoes,  and  the  blankets  off  his  and  Rich 
ard's  beds  are  gone  too,"  said  Abner.  He  began 
to  move  towards  the  house. 

His  father  made  a  bound  after  him  and  grasped 
his  arm.  "What  do  you  mean  ?"  he  cried  out. 
"What  do  you  think  they've  run  away  for  ?" 

"Know  as  much  as  I  do,"  replied  Abner.  He 
wrenched  his  arm  away  and  strode  on  towards 
the  house.  Then  David  Ilautville  and  his  son 
Eugene  stood  looking  at  each  other  with  a  sur 
mise  of  horror  growing  in  their  eyes. 

"What  does  he  mean?"  David  whispered, 
hoarsely. 

Eugene  shook  his  head. 


MADELOK  75 

Presently  Eugene  went  into  the  barn  and  fell 
to  feeding  the  roan  mare,  and  David  plunged 
heavily  back  to  the  house.  He  and  Abner  sat 
one  on  each  side  of  the  fire  and  furtively  watched 
Madelon  preparing  supper. 

She  spoke  never  a  word.  Her  red  lips  were  a 
red  line  of  resolution.  Her  despairing  eyes  were 
fixed  upon  her  work  without  a  glance  for  either 
of  them. 

However,  when  supper  was  set  on  the  table, 
and  she  had  blown  the  horn  at  the  door  and 
waited,  and  nobody  else  came,  she  turned  with 
sudden  life  upon  her  father  and  her  brothers,  who 
had  already  begun  to  taste  the  smoking  hasty- 
pudding  " Where  are  the  others?"  she  cried 
out,  shrilly.  "  Where  are  Louis  and  Richard  ?" 

The  men  glanced  at  one  another  under  sullen 
eyelids,  but  nobody  answered.  "  Where  are  they?" 
she  repeated. 

"You  know  as  much  about  it  as  we  do," 
Eugene  said,  then,  in  his  soft  voice. 

Madelon  stood  with  wild  eyes  flashing  from 
one  to  another.  Then  she  gave  a  sudden  spring 
out  of  the  room,  and  they  heard  her  swift  feet 
on  the  chamber-stairs.  The  men  ate  their  hasty- 
pudding,  bending  their  brows  over  it  as  if  it 
were  a  witches'  mess  instead  of  their  ordinary 
home  fare. 

Madelon  came  back  so  rapidly  that  she  seemed 
to  fly  over  the  stairs.  They  scarcely  heard  the 


76  MADELON 

separate  taps  of  her  feet.  She  burst  into  the 
room  and  faced  them  in  a  sort  of  fury.  "  They 
have  gone  !"  she  gasped  out.  "  Louis  and  Eichard 
have  gone  !  Where  are  they  ?" 

David  Hautville  slowly  shook  his  head.  Then 
he  took  another  spoonful  of  pudding.  The 
brothers  bent  with  stern  assiduity  over  their 
bowls. 

"You  have  hid  them  away  !"  shrieked  Madelon. 
"You  have  hid  them  away  lest  Louis  own  that 
he  saw  blood  on  my  hand,  and  Richard  that  he 
gave  me  his  knife  !  What  have  you  done  with 
them  r 

Not  one  of  the  three  men  spoke.  They  swal- 
loAved  their  pudding. 

"Father!  Abner !  Eugene!"  said  Madelon, 
"tell  me  what  you  have  done  with  my  brothers, 
who  can  testify  that  I  killed  Lot  Gordon,  and 
save  Burr  ?" 

David  Hautville  wiped  his  mouth  on  his  sleeve, 
rose  up,  and  took  his  daughter  firmly  by  the  arm. 

"  We  know  no  more  what  has  become  of  your 
brothers  than  you  do,"  said  he.  "If  they  have 
gone  away  for  the  reason  you  say,  your  old  father 
would  be  the  first  to  bring  them  back,  if  you  were 
guilty  as  you  say,  daughter  of  mine  though  you 
be.  But  we  know  well  enough,  wherever  your 
brothers  have  gone,  and  for  whatever  cause  they 
have  gone,  that  you  have  done  nothing  worse 
then  go  daft,  as  women  will,  to  shield  a  fellow 


MADELO:N"  77 

that's  used  you  ill.  You  shall  put  us  to  no  more 
shame  while  I  am  your  father  and  you  under  my 
roof.  Abner,,  fill  up  a  bowl  with  the  pudding." 

Madelon's  face  was  deathly  white  and  full  of 
rebellion  as  she  looked  up  in  her  father's,  but  she 
held  herself  still  with  a  stern  dignity  and  did 
not  struggle.  David  Hautville's  will  was  up. 
His  hand  on  her  soft  arm  was  like  a  vise  of  steel. 
The  memories  of  her  childhood  were  strong  upon 
her.  She  knew  of  old  that  there  was  no  appeal, 
and  was  too  proud  to  contend  where  she  must 
yield. 

"  Take  the  bowl/'  said  her  father,  when  Abner 
extended  it  filled  with  the  steaming  pudding — 
"  take  the  bowl,  and  go  you  to  your  chamber.  Eat 
your  supper,  and  get  into  your  bed  and  stay  there 
till  morning." 

Madelon  still  looked  at  her  father  with  that 
same  look  of  speechless  but  unyielding  rebellion. 
She  did  not  stir  to  take  the  bowl  or  go  to  her 
chamber. 

"  Do  as  I  bid  ye  !"  ordered  her  father,  in  a  great 
voice. 

Madelon  took  the  bowl  from  her  brother's  hand 
and  went  out  of  the  room  as  she  was  bid ;  and 
yet  as  she  went  they  all  knew  that  there  was 
no  yielding  in  her. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  next  morning  Madelon  came  down-stairs 
as  usual  and  prepared  breakfast.  When  it  was 
ready  the  family  sat  up  to  the  table  and  ate  si 
lently  and  swiftly.  No  one  addressed  a  word  to 
Madelon.  After  breakfast  David  and  his  son 
Abner  put  on  their  leather  jackets  and  their  fur 
caps,  and  set  forth  for  the  woods  with  their  axes, 
but  Eugene  lounged  gracefully  over  to  the  hearth 
and  sat  down  on  the  settle,  and  began  reading  his 
Shakespeare  book.  Eugene  was  the  only  one  of 
the  Hautvilles  who  ever  read  books.  He  studied 
faithfully  the  few  in  the  house — the  Shakespeare, 
the  Pilgrim's  Progress,  Milton,  and  Gulliver's 
Travels.  The  others  wondered  at  him.  They 
could  not  understand  how  any  one  who  could 
handle  a  gun  or  a  musical  instrument  could  lay 
finger  on  a  book.  "  Made-up  things/'  said  Abner 
once,  with  a  scornful  motion  towards  Shakes 
peare. 

"No  more  made-up  than  fugue/'  retorted  Eu 
gene,  hotly ;  but  they  all  cried  out  on  him. 

This  morning  Madelon  cast  one  quick  glance 
at  him  as  he  sauntered  over  to  the  settle  with 


MADELOtf  79 

his  book.  Then  she  did  not  look  his  way  again. 
She  worked  quietly,  setting  the  kitchen  to  rights. 

The  day  was  very  cold ;  the  light  in  the  room 
was  dim  and  white,  the  windows  were  coated  so 
thickly  with  the  hoar-frost.  Eugene  kept  stir 
ring  the  fire  and  adding  sticks  as  he  read. 

Finally,,  Madelon  had  finished  her  work  in  the 
kitchen.,  and  went  up-stairs.  Then  Eugene  arose 
reluctantly,,  went  out  into  the  cold  entry,  and 
stood  by  the  door  with  his  book  in  hand.  Made- 
Ion,  passing  across  the  landing  above,  looked 
down  and  saw  him  standing  there,  and  knew  that 
what  she  suspected  was  true — that  her  brother  was 
mounting  guard  over  her  lest  she  leave  the  house. 

She  finished  her  work  in  the  chamber,  and  came 
down-stairs  with  some  knitting-work  in  hand. 
She  seated  herself  quietly  in  her  own  cushioned 
rocking-chair,  and  fell  to  work  with  yarn  and 
clicking  needles,  like  any  peaceful  housewife. 
She  knitted  and  Eugene  read,  bending  his  hand 
some  dark  face,  smiling  with  pleasure,  over  his 
Shakespeare  book.  This  fierce  winter  day  he  was 
reading  "A  Midsummer-Nights  Dream,"  and 
letting  his  fancy  revel  with  Shakespeare's  fairies 
in  an  enchanted  summer  wood.  He  was,  how 
ever,  alert  as  a  watch-dog.  He  could  at  an  in 
stant's  warning  leave  that  delicate  and  dainty 
crew  and  those  flowery  shores,  and  intercept  his 
sister,  should  she  attempt  to  pass  him  and  escape 
from  the  house. 


80  MADELON" 

Still,  his  alertness  all  came  to  naught,  for  Made- 
Ion,,  like  some  fleeing  fox,  took  a  sudden  turn 
which  no  canny  hunter  could  have  anticipated. 
She  sat  somewhat  away  from  the  hearth  and  well 
at  Eugene's  back.  He  would  have  asked  her  why 
she  did  not  draw  nearer  the  fire  and  if  she  were 
not  cold  had  he  not  feared  to  encounter  a  sulky 
humor.  He  could  not  see  the  lengths  of  linen 
cloth,  which  she  herself  had  spun  and  woven, 
lying  in  a  great  heap  on  the  floor,  half  at  her  back, 
half  under  her  petticoats.  However,  could  he 
have  seen  it  he  would  have  thought  of  it  merely 
as  some  mysterious  domestic  and  feminine  pro 
ceeding  about  which  he  neither  knew  nor  cared 
to  know  anything. 

Madelon,  as  she  knitted,  ever  measured  the 
distance  between  her  brother  and  herself  with 
her  great  black  eyes,  training  her  nerves  and 
muscles  for  what  she  had  to  do  as  she  would 
have  trained  a  bow  and  arrow. 

Eugene  turned  a  leaf  in  his  Shakespeare  book. 
Madelon  made  a  leap,  so  soft  and  swift  that  it 
seemed  like  an  onslaught  of  Silence  itself,  and 
he  was  smothered  and  wound  about  and  entan 
gled  in  folds  of  linen  as  if  it  had  been  in  truth 
his  winding-sheet.  He  struggled  as  best  he  might 
against  his  linen  bands,  and  cried  out  as  angrily 
as  he  could  for  the  linen  that  bound  his  mouth 
and  his  eyes,  but  he  could  not  release  himself. 
Eugene  was  strong  and  lithe,  but  Madelon  was 


AIADELON  81 

nearly  as  strong  as  he  at  any  time ;  and  now  the 
great  tension  of  her  nerves  seemed  to  inform  all 
her  muscles  with  the  strength  of  steel  wire. 

Eugene  sat  bound  hard  and  fast  to  the  settle, 
with  his  face  swathed  like  a  mummy's,  with  only 
enough  space  clear  for  breath.  "Let  me  go,  or 
Fll — "  he  threatened,  in  his  smothered  tone. 

Madelon  made  no  reply.  She  watched  him 
struggle  to  be  sure  that  he  could  not  free  him 
self.  Then  she  went  out  of  the  room.  Eugene 
called  after  her  in  a  choke  of  fury,  but  she  spoke 
not  a  word. 

Up-stairs  she  hastened  to  her  own  chamber, 
and  put  on  her  red  cloak  and  hood,  and  was 
down  the  stairs  again,  out  the  door,  and  hurrying 
up  the  road  to  the  village.  From  time  to  time 
she  glanced  behind  her  to  be  sure  that  her  broth 
er  had  not  freed  himself,  and  was  not  in  pursuit ; 
then  she  sped  on  faster.  The  road  was  glare 
with  ice,  but  she  did  not  slow  her  pace  for  that. 
She  was  as  sure-footed  as  a  hare.  She  kept  her 
arms  close  to  her  sides  under  her  red  cloak,  and 
did  not  pause  until  she  came  out  on  the  village 
street  where  the  houses  were  thick.  Then  she 
went  at  a  rapid  walk,  still  glancing  sharply  be 
hind  her  to  see  if  she  were  followed,  until  she 
came  to  Parson  Fair's  house.  She  went  up  the 
front  walk,  between  the  rows  of  ice-coated  box, 
and  up  the  stone  steps  under  the  stately  col 
umned  porch,  and  raised  the  knocker  and  let  it 


82  ttADELOK 

fall  with  sharp  impetus.  The  door  opened  speed 
ily  a  little  way,  and  Parson  Fair  himself  stood 
there,  his  pale,  stern  old  face  framed  in  the 
dark  aperture.  He  bowed  with  gentle  courtesy 
and  bade  her  good-morning,  and  Madelon  courte- 
sied  hurriedly  and  spoke  out  her  errand  with  no 
preface. 

"  Can  I  see  your  daughter,  sir  ?"  said  she. 

Parson  Fair  looked  at  Madelon's  white  face, 
touched  on  the  cheeks  and  lips  with  feverish 
red,  at  her  set  mouth  and  desperate  eyes.  The 
story  of  her  connection  with  the  Gordon  tragedy 
had  not  penetrated  to  his  study,  neither  did  he 
know  how  Burr  had  forsaken  her  for  his  Doro 
thy  ;  but  he  saw  something  was  amiss  with  her, 
although  he  was  not  well  versed  in  the  signs  of 
a  woman's  face.  Parson  Fair,  moreover,  felt 
somewhat  of  interest  in  this  Madelon  Hautville, 
for  he  had  a  decorously  restrained  passion  for 
sweet  sounds  which  she  had  often  gratified. 
Many  a  Sabbath  day  had  he  sat  in  his  beetling 
pulpit  and  striven  to  keep  his  mind  fixed  upon 
the  spirit  of  the  hymn  alone,  in  spite  of  his  leap 
ing  pulses,  when  Madelon's  great  voice  filled  the 
meeting-house.  It  was  probable  that  he  also,  not 
withstanding  his  Christian  grace,  shared  some 
what  the  popular  sentiments  towards  these  musi 
cal  and  Bohemian  Hautvilles ;  yet  he  looked  with 
a  dignified  kindness  at  the  girl. 

"  I  trust  you  are  not  ill/'  he  said,  without  an- 


MADELOtf  83 

swering  her  question  as  to  whether  she  might  see 
Dorothy. 

Madelon  did  not  act  as  if  she  heard  what  he 
said.  "  Can  I  see  your  daughter,  sir  ?"  she  re 
peated.  She  cast  an  anxious  glance  over  her 
shoulder  for  fear  Eugene  might  appear  in  the  road. 

Parson  Fair  still  eyed  her  with  perplexity.  "I 
believe  Dorothy  is  ill  in  her  chamber/'  he  said, 
hesitatingly.  "  I  do  not  know — " 

Madelon  gave  a  dry  sob.  "  I  beg  you  to  let 
me  see  her  for  a  minute,  sir,"  she  gasped  out, 
' ( for  the  love  of  God.  It  is  life  and  death  !" 

Parson  Fair  looked  shocked  and  half  alarmed. 
He  had  not  had  to  do  with  women  like  this,  who 
spoke  with  such  fervor  of  passion.  His  woman 
kind  had  swathed  all  their  fiercer  human  emo 
tions  with  shy  decorum  and  stern  modesty,  as 
Turkish  women  swathe  their  faces  with  veils. 

Madelon,  still  under  the  fear  of  Eugene, 
pressed  inside  the  door  as  she  spoke,  and  he 
stood  aside  half  involuntarily.  "I  beg  you  to 
let  me  see  her,"  she  repeated.  She  looked  at 
the  stately  wind  of  the  stairs  up  to  the  second 
floor,  as  if  she  were  minded  to  ascend  without 
bidding  to  Dorothy's  chamber. 

"  She  is  ill  in  her  chamber,"  the  Parson  said 
again,  with  a  kind  of  forbidding  helplessness. 

"  I  would  see  her  only  for  a  minute.  I  beg  you 
to  let  me,  sir.  It  is  life  and  death,  I  tell  you— 
it  is  life  and  death  !" 


84  MADELON 

Whether  Parson  Fair  motioned  her  to  ascend, 
or  whether  he  simply  stood  aside  to  allow  her  to 
pass,  he  never  knew,  but  Madelon  was  up  the 
winding  stairs  with  a  swirl  of  her  cloak,  as  if  the 
wind  had  caught  it.  Parson  Fair  followed  her, 
and  motioned  her  to  the  south  front  chamber, 
and  was  about  to  rap  on  the  door  when  it  was 
flung  open  violently,  and  the  great  black  princess 
stood  there,  scowling  at  them. 

"I  have  a  guest  here  for  your  mistress,"  said 
Parson  Fair;  but  the  black  woman  blocked  his 
way,  speaking  fast  in  her  wrathful  gibberish. 

However,  at  a  stately  gesture  from  her  master 
she  stood  aside,  and  he  held  the  door  open,  and 
Madelon  entered.  "You  had  better  not  remain 
long,  to  tire  her/'  said  the  parson,  and  closed  the 
door.  Immediately  the  uncouth  savage  voice 
was  raised  high  again,  and  quelled  by  the  par 
son's  calm  tone.  Then  there  was  a  great  set 
tling  of  a  heavy  body  close  to  the  threshold. 
The  black  woman  had  thrown  herself  at  the  sill 
of  her  darling's  door,  to  keep  watch,  like  a  faith 
ful  dog. 

Madelon  Hautville,  when  she  entered  Dorothy 
Fair's  room,  had  her  mind  not  been  fixed  upon 
its  one  end,  which  was  above  all  such  petty  de 
tails  of  existence,  might  well  have  looked  about 
her.  No  such  dainty  maiden  bower  was  there  in 
the  whole  village  as  this.  Madelon's  own  cham 
ber,  carpetless  and  freezing  cold,  with  its  sparse 


MADELON  85 

furniture  and  scanty  sweep  of  white  curtains 
across  the  furred  windows  which  filled  the  room 
with  the  blue-white  light  of  frost,  was  desolation 
to  it. 

A  great  fire  blazed  on  Dorothy  Fair's  chamber 
hearth.  The  red  glow  of  it  was  over  the  whole 
room,  and  the  frost  on  the  windows  was  melt 
ing.  Curtains  of  a  soft  blue-and-white  stuff, 
said  to  have  been  brought  from  overseas,  hung 
at  Dorothy's  windows  and  between  the  high 
posts  of  her  bed.  She  had  also  her  little  rock 
ing-chair  and  footstool  frilled  and  cushioned 
with  it.  There  was  a  fine  white  matting  on  her 
floor,  and  a  thick  rug  with  a  basket  of  flowers 
wrought  on  it  beside  her  bed.  The  high  white 
panel-work  around  Dorothy's  mantel  was  carved 
with  curving  garlands  and  festoons  of  ribbon  and 
flowers,  and  on  the  shelf  stood  tall  china  vases 
and  bright  candlesticks.  Dorothy's  dressing- 
table  had  a  petticoat  of  finest  dimity,  trimmed 
with  tiny  tassels.  Above  it  hung  her  fine  oval 
mirror,  in  a  carved  gilt  frame.  Upon  the  table 
were  scattered  silver  and  ivory  things  and  glass 
bottles,  the  like  of  which  Madelon  had  never 
seen.  The  room  was  full  of  that  mingled  per 
fume  of  roses  and  lavender  which  was  always 
about  Dorothy  herself. 

The  counterpane  on  Dorothy's  bed  was  all 
white  and  blue,  and  quilted  in  a  curious  fashion, 
and  her  pillows  were  edged  with  lace.  In  the 


85 

midst  of  this  white-and-blue  nest,  her  slender 
little  body  half  buried  in  her  great  feather-bed,, 
her  lovely  yellow  locks  spreading  over  her  pil 
low,  lay  Dorothy  Fair  when  Madelon  entered. 
She  half  raised  herself,  and  stared  at  her  with 
blue,  dilated  eyes,  and  shrank  back  with  a  little 
whimper  of  terror  when  she  came  impetuously 
to  her  bedside. 

"You  don't  believe  it,"  Madelon  said,  with  no 
preface. 

Dorothy  stared  at  her,  trembling.  "You 
mean — " 

"  I  mean  you  don't  believe  he  killed  him  ! 
You  don't  believe  Burr  Gordon  killed  his  cousin 
Lot  !" 

Dorothy  sank  weakly  back  on  her  pillows. 
Great  tears  welled  up  in  her  blue  eyes  and  rolled 
down  her  soft  cheeks.  "They  saw  him  there," 
she  sobbed  out,  "  and  they  found  his  knife.  Oh, 
I  didn't  think  he  was  so  wicked !" 

Madelon  caught  her  by  one  slender  arm  hard, 
as  if  she  would  have  shaken  her.  "  You  believe 
it !"  she  cried  out.  "  You  believe  that  Burr  did 
it — you  r 

"They — saw — him — there,"  moaned  Dorothy, 
with  a  terrified  roll  of  her  tearful  eyes  at  Made- 
Ion's  face. 

"Saw  Mm  there!  What  if  they  did  see  him 
there  ?  What  if  the  whole  town  saw  him  ?  What 
if  you  saw  him  ?  What  if  you  saw  him  strike  the 


MADELOK  87 

blow  with  your  own  eyes  ?  Wouldn't  you  tear 
them  out  of  your  own  head  before  you  believed 
it  ?  Wouldn't  you  cut  your  own  tongue  out  be 
fore  you'd  bear  witness  against  him  ?" 

Dorothy  sobbed  convulsively. 

"  I  would/'  said  Madelon. 

Dorothy  hid  her  face  away  from  her  in  the 
pillow. 

Madelon  laid  her  hand  on  her  fair  head,  and 
turned  it  with  no  gentle  hand.  "Listen  to  rne 
now/' she  said.  "You've  got  to  listen.  You've 
got  to  hear  what  I  say.  You  ought  to  believe 
without  being  told,  without  knowing  anything 
about  it,  that  he's  innocent,  if  you're  a  woman 
and  love  him;  but  I'm  going  to  tell  you.  Burr 
Gordon  didn't  kill  his  cousin  Lot.  I  did  !" 

Dorothy  gave  a  faint  scream  and  shrank  away 
from  her. 

"I  did!"  repeated  Madelon.  "Now  do  you 
believe  he's  innocent,  when  somebody  else  has 
told  you  ?" 

Dorothy's  face  was  white  as  her  pillows,  her 
eyes  big  with  terror.  There  was  a  soft  thud 
against  her  door.  The  black  woman  was  keep 
ing  arduous  watch. 

"  You  couldn't !"  Dorothy  gasped  out. 

"  I  could  !  Look  at  my  hands ;  they  are  as 
strong  as  a  man's." 

«  You— couldn't!" 

"I  could,  and  I  did." 


88  MADELOK 

Dorothy  shook  her  head  in  hysterical  doubt. 

"Listen,"  said  Madelon— "listen.  I'll  tell 
you  why  I  did  it,  Dorothy  Fair.  Burr  Gordon 
had  been  with  me  a  little  before  he  went  with 
you.  Perhaps  you  knew  it.  If  you  did,  I  am 
not  blaming  you  —  he's  got  taking  ways,  you 
couldn't  help  it ;  and  I  am  not  blaming  him — 
he's  a  man,  and  you're  fairer  complexioned  than 
I  am.  But  I  was  fool  enough  to  be  mad  with 
out  any  good  reason — you  understand  I  am  not 
saying  anything  against  him,  Dorothy  Fair  — 
when  I  saw  him  with  you  at  the  ball.  He  had  a 
right  to  take  anybody  to  the  ball  that  he  chose. 
It  was  naught  to  me,  but  I  was  mad.  I  have  a 
quick  temper.  And  I  started  home  when  that 
young  man  from  Kingston  offered  to  fiddle  for 
the  dancing  after  you  and  Burr  went  out ;  and 
my  brother  Eichard  made  me  take  his  knife  for 
fear  I  might  meet  stragglers,  and  I  had  it  open 
under  my  cloak.  And  when  I  got  to  that  lonely 
part  of  the  road,  after  the  turn,  I  saw  somebody 
coming,  and  I  thought  it  was  Burr.  He  walked 
like  him.  And  I  looked  away — I  did  not  want 
to  see  his  face ;  and  when  I  came  up  to  him  the 
first  thing  I  knew  he  threw  his  arm  around  me 
and  kissed  me,  and — something  seemed  to  leap 
up  in  me  and  I  struck  with  Richard's  knife. 
And — then  he  fell  down,  and  I  looked  and  it  was 
not  Burr — it  was  his  cousin  Lot.  And — then 
Burr  came,  and  we  heard  whistling,  and  others 


MADELCW  89 

were  coming,  and  he  made  me  run,,  and  the  others 
came  up  and  found  him ;  and  now  they  say  he 
did  it  and  not  I.  It  was  I  who  stabbed  Lot  Gor 
don,  Dorothy  Fair  !" 

"  It  was  Burr's  knife,  with  his  initials  cut  in 
the  handle,  that  they  found,"  said  Dorothy,  with 
a  kind  of  piteous  doggedness.  There  was  in  this 
fair  little  maiden  the  same  power  of  adherence  to 
a  mental  attitude  which  her  father  had  shown  in 
his  religious  tenets.  Wherever  the  men  and 
women  of  this  family  stood  they  were  fixed  be 
yond  their  own  capability  of  motion. 

Madelon  gave  a  beivildered  sigh.  "  I  know  not 
how  that  was,"  said  she,  "  unless — "  a  red  flush 
mounted  over  her  whole  face.  "No,  he  would  not 
have  done  that  for  me,"  she  said,  as  if  to  herself. 

A  red  flush  on  Dorothy's  face  seemed  to  respond 
to  that  on  Madelon's.  "You  think  he  put  his 
knife  there  to  take  suspicion  from  you  ?"  she 
cried  out,  quickly. 

Madelon  shook  her  head.  "I  don't  know 
about  the  knife,"  she  said,  "but  I  know  I 
stabbed  Lot  Gordon." 

"  He  would  not  have  done  that,"  said  Dorothy, 
with  troubled,  angry  blue  eyes  on  her  face. 
"  He  would  have  thought  of — others.  He  never 
changed  the  knife,  Madelon  Hautville  !" 

"I  know  nothing  about  the  knife,"  repeated 
Madelon,  "but  Burr  Gordon  did  not  kill  his 
cousin." 


90  MADELON 

"  He  was  there,  and  it  was  his  knife,"  said  Dor 
othy.  There  was  now  a  curious  indignation  in 
her  manner.  It  was  almost  as  if  she  preferred 
to  believe  her  lover  guilty  of  murder  rather  than 
unduly  solicitous  for  her  rival. 

Madelon  Hautville  turned  upon  her  with  a  kind 
of  fierce  solemnity.  "Dorothy  Fair,"  said  she, 
"look  at  me  !"  and  the  soft,  blue-eyed  face,  full 
of  that  gentle  unyielding  which  is  the  firmest  of 
all,  looked  up  at  her  from  the  pillows — "  Dor 
othy  Fair,  did  that  man,  who's  locked  up  over 
there  in  jail  in  New  Salem,  for  a  crime  he's 
innocent  of,  ever  kiss  you  ?" 

Madelon's  face  seemed  to  wax  stiff  and  .white. 
She  looked  like  one  who  bared  her  breast  for  a 
mortal  hurt  as  she  spoke.  Dorothy  went  pink  to 
the  roots  of  her  yellow  hair  and  the  frill  on  her 
nightgown.  She  made  an  angry  shamed  motion 
of  her  head,  which  might  have  signified  anything. 

"And  you  can  believe  this  thing  of  him  after 
that !"  said  Madelon,  with  a  look  of  despairing 
scorn.  "  He  has  kissed  you,  Dorothy  Fair,  and 
you  can  think  he  has  committed  a  murder  !" 

Dorothy  gasped.  "  They  said — "  she  began 
again. 

"They  said!  Are  you  a  woman,  Dorothy 
Fair,  and  don't  you  knoAv  that  the  man  you  love 
enough  to  let  him  kiss  you  should  do  no  wrong 
in  your  eyes,  or  else  it's  a  shame  to  you,  and  you 
should  kill  him  to  wipe  it  out  ?"  Dorothy  shrank 


MADELON  91 

away  from  her  in  the  bed,  her  frightened  blue 
eyes  staring  at  her  over  her  shoulder.  "My 
God  !  don't  you  know/'  said  Madelon,  "  the  man 
you  love  is  yourself  ?  When  you  believe  in  his 
guilt  you  believe  in  your  own ;  when  you  strike 
him  for  it  you  strike  yourself.  Don't  you  know 
that,  Dorothy  Fair  ?" 

Dorothy  looked  at  her,  all  white  and  trem 
bling.  She  gave  a  half-sob.  Suddenly  Madelon's 
tone  changed.  "Don't  be  afraid,"  said  she. 
"I'm  different  from  you.  I  don't  wonder  he 
liked  you  better.  It's  no  blame  to  him.  I 
know  you  care  about  him.  You  don't  believe 
he  did  it." 

"I  don't  know,"  sobbed  Dorothy.  The  door 
opened  a  crack,  and  the  black  woman's  watchful 
eyes  appeared. 

"  Oh,  you  do  know,  you  do  know !  I  tell 
you,  I  did  it — I !  Can't  you  believe  me  ?  I'm  a 
wicked  woman,  and  I  love  anybody  I  love  in  a 
different  way  from  any  that  a  woman  as  good  as 
you  are  can.  I  did  it,  Dorothy,  and  not  Burr ! 
He  mustn't  suffer  for  it.  We  must  see  him,  you 
and  I  together  !  Don't  you  believe  me  ?" 

"  I  don't — know,"  sobbed  Dorothy.  The  dark 
face  appeared  quite  fully  in  the  door.  Madelon 
cast  a  quick  glance  about  the  room.  Dorothy's 
pretty  Bible,  with  a  blue  -  silk  -  ribbon  marker 
hanging  from  it,  lay  on  her  dimity  dressing- 
table.  Madelon  sprang  across  and  got  it.  The 


92  MADELOtf 

black  woman  stood  in  the  doorway,  muttering  to 
herself.  She  looked  all  ready  to  spring  to  Doro 
thy's  defence.  Madelon.  did  not  notice  her  at 
all.  She  went  close  to  Dorothy,  put  the  Bible 
on  the  bed,  and  laid  her  right  hand  upon  it. 

"I  swear  upon  this  Holy  Book,"  said  she, 
"  that  this  hand  of  mine  is  the  one  that  stabbed 
Lot  Gordon.  I  swear,  and  I  call  God  to  witness, 
and  may  I  be  struck  dead  as  I  speak  if  what  I 
say  is  not  true.  Now  do  you  believe  what  I  say, 
Dorothy  Fair  ?" 

Dorothy  looked  at  her  and  the  Bible  in  bewil 
dered  terror.  She  nodded. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

SOMETHING  like  joy  came  into  Madelon's  face. 
"  Then  we  will  save  him,  you  and  I  \"  she  cried 
out.  "We  will  save  him  together !  He  shall  not 
be  hung  !  He  shall  be  set  free  !  They  shall  let 
him  out  of  jail  to-day,  and  put  me  there  instead. 
We  will  save  him !  He  would  not  own  that  I 
was  guilty  and  he  innocent ;  Lot  would  not 
own  it,  nor  my  brother  Richard,  but  now — we 
will  save  him — now  !" 

"How  ?"  asked  Dorothy,  feebly. 

"  He  will  own  it  to  you.  Burr  will  own  it  to 
you  if  you  go  and  plead  with  him.  He  can't 
help  owning  it  to  you.  And  then  you  shall  go 
to  Lot,  and  when  you  ask  him  for  your  sake, 
that  you  may  marry  Burr,  if  he  knows  Burr  has 
told  you,  and  does  not  care  about  rne,  he  will 
speak.  He  will  be  sure  to  speak  for  you. 
Come  r 

Dorothy  raised  herself  on  one  elbow  and 
stared  at  Madelon,  her  yellow  hair  falling  about 
her  fair  startled  face.  "Where  ?"  said  she. 

"With  me  to  New  Salem." 

"  To  Xew  Salem  ?" 


94  MADELON 

"Yes,  to  New  Salem — to  see  Burr/' 

"  But  I  am  ill,  and  the  doctor  has  bid  me  stay 
in  bed.  I  have  been  ill  ever  since  the  ball  with 
a  headache  and  fever." 

"You  talk  about  headache  and  fever  when 
Burr  is  there  in  prison  !  I  tell  you  if  my  two 
feet  were  cut  off  I  would  walk  to  him  on  the 
stumps  to  set  him  free  \" 

"How  can  I  go?"  said  Dorothy.  Her  blue 
eyes  kindled  a  little  under  Madelon's  fiery  zeal. 

"We  will  take  your  father's  horse  and  sleigh." 

"  But  the  horse  is  gone  lame,  and  has  not  been 
used  for  a  month." 

"  I  will  get  one  from  Dexter  Beers  at  the  tav 
ern,"  said  Madelon,  promptly.  "  I  will  lead  him 
over  here  and  harness  him  into  the  sleigh." 

"  My  father  will  not  let  me  go,"  said  Dorothy. 

"He  is  a  minister  of  the  gospel — he  will  let 
his  daughter  go  to  save  a  life." 

"I  tell  you  he  will  not,"  said  Dorothy.  "I 
know  my  father  better  than  you.  He  will  not 
let  me  go  out  when  I  am  ill.  It  is  freezing  cold, 
too.  If  I  go  I  must  go  without  his  knowledge 
and  consent." 

"I  am  going  without  my  father's,"  said  Made- 
Ion,  shortly,  "and  I  go  at  a  greater  cost  than 
that,  too." 

"It's  the  second  time  I  have  deceived  and  dis 
obeyed  my  father  in  a  week's  time,"  Dorothy 
said. 


MADELOtf  95 

"You  talk  about  your  father  when  it  is  Burr 
—  Burr  —  that's  at  stake  I"  Madelon  cried  out. 
et  What  is  your  father  to  Burr  if  you  love  him  ? 
That  ought  to  go  before  anything  else.  It  says 
so  in  your  Bible — it  says  so  in  your  Bible,  Doro 
thy  Fair  !" 

Dorothy,  with  her  innocent,,  frightened  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  other  girl's  passionate  face,  as  if 
she  were  being  led  by  her  into  unknown  paths, 
put  back  the  coverlet  and  thrust  one  little  white 
foot  out  of  bed.  Then  swiftly  the  black  woman, 
who  had  entered  the  room,  backed  against  the 
door  as  stiffly  as  a  sentinel,  darted  forward,  and 
would  have  thrust  her  mistress  into  bed  again, 
making  uncouth  protests  the  while,  had  not  Dor 
othy  motioned  her  away  with  a  gentle  dignity, 
which  was  hers  for  use  when  she  chose. 

"Go  down -stairs,  if  you  please,"  said  she, 
"and  see  if  my  father  is  in  his  study.  If  he  is 
in  there,  and  busy  over  his  sermon,  go  to  the 
barn,  and  drag  out  the  sleigh  for  us." 

Dorothy,  white  and  fair  as  an  angel,  in  her 
straight  linen  nightgown,  stood  out  on  the  floor, 
in  front  of  her  great  black  guardian,  who  made 
again  as  though  she  would  seize  her  and  force 
her  back,  and  pleaded  with  her  in  a  thick  drone, 
like  an  anxious  bee,  not  to  go. 

"  Do  as  I  bid  you  !"  said  Dorothy,  and  glided 
past  her  to  her  dimity  dressing-table,  and  began 
combing  out  her  yellow  hair. 


96  MADELON 

The  black  woman  went  out,  muttering. 

"If  my  father  is  in  his  study  on  the  north 
side  of  the  house,,  and  busy  over  his  sermon,  we 
can  get  away  ;  otherwise  we  cannot/'  said  Doro 
thy,,  combing  the  thick  tress  over  her  shoulder. 

Madelon  went  to  a  south  window  of  the  room 
and  looked  out.  She  could  see  the  barn,  and 
across  the  road,  farther  down,  the  tavern.  She 
watched  while  Dorothy  bound  up  her  hair,  and 
soon  she  saw  the  black  woman  run,  with  a  low 
crouch  of  her  great  body  like  a  stealthy  animal, 
across  the  yard. 

"Your  father  is  in  his  study,"  Madelon  said, 
quickly.  "I  will  go  over  to  the  tavern  for  a 
horse  if  yours  is  too  lame." 

"He  can  scarce  stand,"  said  Dorothy.  Her 
soft  voice  trembled  ;  she  trembled  all  over — then 
was  still  with  nervous  rigors.  Bright  pink  spots 
were  on  her  cheeks.  A  certain  girlish  daring 
was  there  in  this  gentle  maiden  for  youthful  love 
and  pleasure,  else  she  had  not  stolen  away  that 
night  to  the  ball,  but  very  little  for  tragic  enter 
prise.  And,  moreover,  her  fine  sense  of  decorum 
and  womanly  pride  had  always  served  her  mainly 
in  the  place  of  courage,  which  she  lacked. 

Sorely  afraid  was  Dorothy  Fair,  if  the  truth 
were  told,  to  go  with  this  passionate  girl,  who 
had  declared  to  her  face  she  had  done  murder, 
to  visit  a  man  who  she  still  half  believed,  with 
her  helpless  tenacity  of  thought,  was  a  murderer 


MADELON  97 

also.  The  love  she  had  hitherto  felt  for  him 
was  eclipsed  by  terror  at  the  new  image  of  him 
which  her  fearful  fancy  had  conjured  up  and 
could  not  yet  dismiss,  in  spite  of  Madelon' s  as 
surances.  She  was,  too,  really  ill,  and  her  deli 
cate  nerves  were  still  awry  from  the  shock  they 
had  received  the  night  of  the  ball.  Parson  Fair 
had  been  sternly  indignant,  and  his  daughter 
had  quailed  before  him,  and  then  had  come  the 
news  concerning  Burr.  Sage  tea,  and  hot  foot 
baths,  and  the  doctor's  nostrums  had  not  cured 
her  yet.  Her  very  spirit  trembled  and  fluttered 
at  this  undertaking ;  but  she  could  not  with 
stand  this  fierce  and  ardent  girl  who  upbraided 
her  with  the  cowardice  and  distrust  of  her  love. 
Instinctively  she  tried  to  raise  her  sentiment  to 
the  standard  of  the  other's  and  believe  in  Burr. 

Madelon  paused  a  second  as  she  went  out, 
and  gave  a  strange,  scrutinizing  glance  at  her. 

"Why  do  you  not  wear  your  blue-silk  quilted 
hood  with  the  swan's-down  trimming  ?"  said  she. 
"  It  becomes  you,  and  it  is  warm  over  your 
ears." 

"Yes,  I  will/'  said  Dorothy,  looking  at  her 
wonderingly. 

Madelon  went  softly  out  of  the  house,  and  ran 
across  and  down  the  road  to  the  tavern.  Dexter 
Beers,  the  landlord,  was  just  going  around  the 
wide  sweep  of  drive  to  the  stable  with  a  meai- 
sack  over  his  shoulder.  No  one  else  was  in 

7 


98  MADELON 

sight ;  it  was  so  cold  there  were  no  loafers  about. 
Madelon  ran  after  him,  and  overtook  him  before 
he  reached  the  stable  door. 

"  Can  you  let  me  take  a  horse  ?"  said  she, 
abruptly. 

Dexter  Beers  looked  slowly  around  at  her  with 
a  quick  roll  of  a  black  eye  in  a  massive  face.  He 
had  an  enormous  bulk,  which  he  moved  about 
with  painful  sidewise  motions.  His  voice  was 
husky. 

""What  d'ye  want  a  horse  for  ?"  said  he. 

"I  want  it  to  put  in  Parson  Fair's  sleigh." 

"What  for?" 

"To  take  Dorothy  to  ride." 

"Parson's  horse  lame  yet  ?" 

Madelon  nodded. 

"Where's  yours?" 

"I  can't  have  him." 

Dexter  Beers  still  moved  on  with  curious  lat 
eral  twirls  of  his  shoulders  and  heaves  of  his 
great  chest,  with  its  row  of  shining  waistcoat 
buttons. 

"  Pooty  cold  day  for  a  sleigh-ride,"  he  observed, 
with  a  great  steam  of  breath. 

"  I'll  pay  you  well  for  the  horse,"  said  Made- 
Ion,  in  a  hard  voice.  She  followed  him  into  the 
stable.  He  heaved  the  meal-sack  from  his  shoul 
der  to  the  floor  with  a  grunt.  Another  man 
came  forward  with  a  peck  measure  in  his  hand. 
He  was  young,  with  a  frosty  yellow  mustache. 


MADELON  99 

He  had  gone  to  school  with  Madelon  and  knew 
her  well,  but  he  looked  at  her  with  uncouth  shy 
ness  without  speaking.  Then  he  began  unfas 
tening  the  mouth  of  the  sack. 

Madelon  stepped  forward  impatiently  towards 
the  horse-stalls.  There  were  the  relay  of  coach- 
horses,  great  grays  and  bays,  champing  their 
feed,  getting  ready  for  their  sure-footed  rushes 
over  the  mountain  roads  when  the  coaches  came 
in.  She  passed  them  by  with  sharp  glances. 

A  man  whose  face  was  purplish  red  with  cold 
was  out  in  the  rear  of  the  stable,  rubbing  down 
a  restive  bay  with  loud  "  whoas,"  and  now  and 
then  a  stronger  word  and  a  hard  twitch  at  the 
halter.  He  looked  curiously  at  Madelon  as  she 
walked  up  to  one  of  the  stalls. 

"  Better  look  out  for  them  heels  I"  he  called 
out,  as  she  drew  nearer.  She  paid  no  heed,  but 
went  straight  into  the  stall,  untied  the  horse, 
and  began  to  back  him  out.  "  Hi,  there  !"  the 
man  shouted,  and  Dexter  Beers  and  the  young 
man  came  hurrying  up.  "Better  look  out  for 
that  gal — I  believe  she's  gone  crazy  I"  he  called 
out.  "I  can't  leave  this  darned  beast  —  she'll 
get  kicked  to  death  if  she  don't  look  out.  That 
old  white  won't  stan'  a  woman  in  the  stall. 
Whoa,  there  !  whoa,  darn  ye  !  Stan'  still !" 

"Hullo,  what  ye  doin'  of?"  demanded  Dexter 
Beers,  coming  up. 

Madelon  calmly  backed  the  horse  out  of  his 


100  MADELON 

stall.  "  I  want  to  hire  this  horse,"  said  she,  hold 
ing  his  halter  with  a  firm  hand. 

"  That  horse?" 

"Yes.     Fll  pay  you  whatever  you  ask." 

Dexter  Beers  stared  at  her  and  the  horse  dubi 
ously.  "Jest  as  soon  set  a  woman  to  drivin'  the 
devil  as  that  old  white,"  volunteered  the  man 
who  was  cleaning  the  bay.  The  young  man  stood 
gaping  with  wonder. 

"Can  I  have  this  horse  or  not  ?"  demanded 
Madelon.  Her  black  eyes  flashed  imperiously  at 
Dexter  Beers.  Her  small  brown  hand  held  the 
halter  of  the  old  white  with  a  grasp  like  steel. 

"  Dunno  'bout  your  drivin'  that  horse,"  said 
Dexter  Beers.  "  Traid  you'll  get  run  away  with. 
Better  take  another." 

"Isn't  this  horse  the  fastest  you've  got  on  a 
short  stretch  ?" 

"S'pose  he  is,  but  I  dunno  'bout  a  woman's 
drivin'  of  him." 

Madelon  looked  as  if  she  were  half  minded  to 
spring  upon  the  back  of  the  old  white  and  settle 
the  matter  summarily.  She  fairly  quivered  with 
impatience. 

"A  woman  who  can  drive  David  Hautville's 
roan  can  drive  this  horse,  and  you  know  it,"  said 
she.  She  moved  forward  as  she  spoke,  leading 
the  high-stepping  old  white,  and  Dexter  Beers 
stood  aside. 

"Well,  David  Hautville's  roan  is  nigh  a  match 


MADELOK  101 

for  this  one/'  he  grunted,  hesitatingly,  "but  then 
ye  know  your  own  better.     Hadn't  ye  better — " 

But  the  old  white  was  out  of  the  stable  at  a 
trot,  with  Madelon  running  alongside. 

"Don't  ye  want  a  man  to  hitch  him  up?" 
Dexter  Beers  called  after  her;  but  she  was  out 
of  hearing. 

"If  the  gal's  ekal  to  drivin'  that  horse,  she's 
ekal  to  hitchin'  of  him  up,"  said  the  man  who 
was  cleaning  the  bay.  "'If  a  gal  wants  to  drive, 
let  her  hitch.  Ye'd  better  let  a  woman  go  the 
whole  figger  when  she  gits  started,  just  as  ye'd 
better  give  an  ugly  cuss  of  a  horse  his  head  up 
hill  an'  down.  It  takes  the  mischief  out  of  'em 
quicker'n  anything.  Let  her  go  it,  Dexter — 
don't  ye  fret." 

"I  don't  want  her  breakin'  any  of  the  par 
son's  daughter's  bones  with  none  of  my  horses," 
said  Dexter  Beers,  uneasily.  "Wonder  where 
the  parson  is  ?" 

"Let  'em  go  it !  They  won't  git  smashed  up, 
I  guess,"  said  the  other.  "I've  seen  that  gal  of 
Hautville's  with  that  mare  of  his'n.  She  kin 
drive  most  anythin'  short  of  the  devil,  an'  old 
white's  got  sense  enough  to  know  when  he's  well 
driv,  ugly's  he  is.  He  wa'n't  on  the  track  for 
nothin'.  He  ain't  no  wuss,  if  he's  as  bad,  as  that 
roan  mare.  Let  'em  go  it !" 

"Wonder  what's  to  pay  ?"  said  the  young  man, 
who  had  not  spoken  before. 


102  MADELON 

"Dunno,"  said  Dexter  Beers.  "Somethings  to 
pay — that  girl  acted  queer. " 

"S'pose  she  takes  it  hard  'bout  Burr  Gordon. 
He  used  to  fool  "round  her,  Fve  heerd,  afore  he 
went  courtin'  the  parson's  gal." 

"Dunno —  queer  she's  so  thick  with  the  par 
son's  gal  all  of  a  sudden:" 

"Lord,  I  wouldn't  tech  a  gal  that  could  git  the 
upperhand  of  a  horse  like  that  roan  mare  with 
a  ten -foot  pole/'  half  soliloquized  the  man  at 
work  over  the  bay.  "Wouldn't  have  her  if  she 
owned  half  the  township,  an'  went  down  on  her 
knees  to  me — darned  if  I  would.  Don't  want 
no  woman  that  kin  make  horse-flesh  like  that 
knuckle  under.  Guess  a  man  wouldn't  have 
much  show ;  hev  to  take  his  porridge  'bout  the 
way  she  wanted  to  make  it.  Whoa,  there  !  stan' 
still,  can't  ye  ?  Darned  if  I  want  nothin'  to  do 
with  sech  woman  folks  or  sech  horses  as  ye  be." 

Dexter  Beers  moved  laboriously  out  to  the 
stable  door  and  peered  after  Madelon,  but  she 
had  disappeared  in  Parson  Fair's  yard.  The 
white  horse  had  gone  up  the  road  at  a  brisk  trot, 
but  she  had  easily  kept  pace  with  him.  She  also 
harnessed  him  into  the  sleigh  with  no  difficulty. 
The  animal  seemed  docile,  and  as  if  he  were  to 
belie  his  hard  reputation.  There  was,  however, 
a  proud  and  nervous  cant  to  his  old  white  head, 
and  he  set  his  jaw  stiffly  against  his  bit. 

Dorothy  came  out  in  her  quilted  silk  pelisse 


MADELON  103 

and  her  blue  hood  edged  with  swan's-down,  and 
got  into  the  sleigh.  The  black  woman  was  keep 
ing  watch  at  the  parson's  study  door  the  while, 
but  he  never  swerved  from  his  hard  application 
of  the  doctrines.  The  sleigh  slipped  noiselessly 
out  of  the  yard  and  up  the  road,  for  Madelon 
had  not  put  on  the  bells.  The  old  white  went 
rather  stiffly  and  steadily  for  the  first  quarter- 
mile  ;  then  he  made  a  leap  forward  with  a  great 
lift  of  his  lean  white  flanks,  and  they  flew. 

Dorothy  gave  a  terrified  gasp.  "  Don't  be 
frightened,"  Madelon  said.  "  It's  the  horse  that 
used  to  beat  everything  in  the  county.  He's  old 
now,  but  when  he  gets  warmed  up  he's  the  fastest 
horse  around  for  a  short  stretch.  He  can't  hold 
out  long,  but  while  he  does  he  goes ;  and  I  want 
to  get  a  good  start.  I  want  to  strike  the  New 
Salem  road  as  soon  as  I  can." 

Madelon  had  a  growing  fear  lest  Eugene  might 
have  freed  himself,  and  might  ride  the  roan  across 
by  a  shorter  cut,  and  so  intercept  her  at  the  turn 
into  the  New  Salem  road.  He  might  easily  sus 
pect  her  of  attempting  to  see  Burr  again.  If  she 
passed  the  turn  first  she  could  probably  escape 
him  if  her  horse  held  out ;  and,  indeed,  he  might 
not  think  she  had  gone  that  way  if  he  did  not 
see  her. 

Dorothy  held  fast  to  the  side  of  the  sleigh, 
which  seemed  to  rise  from  the  track  as  they 
sped  on.  "Don't  be  frightened,"  Madelon  said 


104  MADELON 

again.  "This  is  the  only  horse  in  town  that  can 
beat  my  father's  on  a  short  stretch,  and  I  don't 
know  that  he  can  always,  but  I  don't  think  he 
has  been  used,  and  father's  was  ridden  hard 
yesterday.  I  can  manage  this  one  in  harness 
better  than  I  can  father's.  Don't  be  frightened." 
But  Dorothy's  face  grew  pale  as  the  swan's-down 
around  it,  and  her  great  blue  eyes  were  fixed  fear 
fully  upon  the  bounding  heels  and  flanks  of  the 
old  white  race-horse. 

Madelon  strained  her  eyes  ahead  as  they  neared 
the  turn  of  the  New  Salem  road.  There  was 
nobody  in  sight.  Then  she  glanced  across  the 
fields  at  the  right.  Suddenly  she  swung  out  the 
reins  over  the  back  of  the  old  white,  and  hallooed, 
and  stood  up  in  the  sleigh. 

Dorothy  screamed  faintly.  "  Sit  still  and  hold 
on !"  Madelon  shouted.  Dorothy  shut  her  eyes. 
It  seemed  to  her  she  was  being  hurled  through 
space.  Her  slender  body  swung  to  and  fro  against 
the  sleigh  as  she  clung  frantically  to  it. 

Eugene  Hautville,  on  the  roan,  was  coming  at 
a  mad  run  across  the  open  field  on  the  right 
towards  the  turn  of  the  road.  It  seemed  for  a 
second  as  if  Madelon  would  reach  it  before  he 
did ;  but  they  met  there,  and  the  roan  reared  to 
a  stop  in  the  narrow  road  directly  in  front  of  the 
old  white,  who  plunged  furiously. 

"  Look  out  there !"  shouted  Eugene,  as  the 
sleigh  tilted  on  the  snow-crust.  The  old  white's 


.MADELON  105 

temper  was  up  at  this  sudden  check,  but  the 
woman  behind  him  had  a  stronger  will  than  he. 
She  brought  him  to  a  straining  halt,  and  then  she 
spoke  to  her  brother. 

"  You  let  us  pass  !"  she  said,  sternly. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?"  he  demanded.  He 
looked  uneasily  at  Dorothy  as  he  spoke.  It  was 
easy  enough  to  see  that  she  was  a  restraint  upon 
him,  and  that  fair,  timid  face  in  its  blue  hood 
held  his  indignation  well  in  check. 

"We  are  going  to  New  Salem,"  replied  Made- 
Ion.  "Let  us  pass." 

"I  want  to  know  what  you  are  going  for," 
said  Eugene  ;  and  he  tried  to  speak  with  fire, 
but  he  still  looked  furtively  at  Dorothy. 

Nobody  had  ever  suspected  how  that  lovely 
face  of  hers  had  been  in  his  dreams,  unless  it  had 
been  for  a  time  Dorothy  herself.  Nobody  had 
noticed  in  meeting,  of  a  Sabbath  day  long  since, 
when  Dorothy  had  first  returned  from  her  Bos 
ton  school,  sundry  glances  which  had  passed  be 
tween  a  pair  of  soft  blue  eyes  in  the  parson's  pew 
and  a  pair  of  fiery  black  ones  in  the  singing-seats. 

Dorothy,  half  guiltily  in  those  days,  had  ar 
ranged  her  curls  and  tied  on  her  Sunday  bon 
nets  with  a  view  to  Eugene  Hautville's  eyes ; 
and  always,  when  she  returned  from  meeting, 
had  gone  straight  to  her  looking-glass,  to  be  sure 
that  she  had  looked  fair  in  them.  But  nobody 
had  ever  known,  and  scarcely  she  herself. 


106  MADELON 

She  had  come  to  think  later  that  she  had  per 
haps  been  mistaken,  for  never  had  Eugene  made 
other  advances  to  her  than  by  those  ardent 
glances ;  and  Burr  had  come,  and  she  had  turned 
to  him,  and  thought  of  Eugene  Hautville  only 
when  he  crossed  her  way,  and  then  with  a  mixt 
ure  of  pique  and  shame.  Never  by  any  chance 
did  her  eyes  meet  his  nowadays  of  a  Sabbath  day, 
and  she  listened  coldly  to  his  sweet  tenor  in  the 
hymns.  Now,  suddenly,  she  looked  straight  up 
in  his  face  and  met  his  eyes,  and  a  pink  flush 
came  into  her  white  cheeks. 

c<  Please  to  let  us  pass/'  she  said,  in  her  gentle 
tone,  which  had  yet  a  tincture  of  command  in  it. 
Any  woman  as  fair  as  she,  who  has  a  right  un 
derstanding  of  her  looking-glass,  has,  however 
soft  she  may  be,  the  instincts  of  a  queen  within 
her.  She  felt  a  proud  resentment  for  her  own 
old  folly  and  for  Eugene's  old  slighting  of  her, 
and  indignation  at  his  present  attitude  as  she 
looked  up  at  him  with  sudden  daring. 

Eugene  threw  back  his  head  haughtily.  "She 
wants  to  see  Burr  Gordon,"  he  thought,  and 
would  have  died  rather  than  let  her  think  he 
would  stand  in  the  way  of  it.  He  jerked  the  roan 
aside,  and  seemed  as  if  he  would  have  been  flung 
into  the  way-side  bushes  with  her  curving  plunge. 

"  Pass,  if  you  wish,"  he  said,  with  a  graceful 
bend  in  his  saddle,  and  was  past  them,  riding 
the  other  way  towards  the  village. 


CHAPTER  IX 

they  reached  the  county  buildings,  the 
court-house  and  the  jail,  in  New  Salem,,  the  old 
race-horse  was  still  not  nearly  spent,  although  he 
breathed  somewhat  hard.  When  Madelon  sprang 
out  to  blanket  and  tie  him  he  seemed  to  vibrate 
to  her  touch  like  electric  steel,  and  showed  that 
the  old  fire  had  not  yet  died  out  of  his  nerves 
and  muscles. 

Poor  Dorothy  Fair's  knees  were  weak  under 
her  as  she  got  out  of  the  sleigh.  Her  pretty  face 
was  pitiful,  her  sweet  mouth  drooping  at  the 
corners  like  a  troubled  child's. 

Madelon  looked  at  her  sharply  when  they  stood 
before  the  jail  door  waiting  for  admittance.  "  I 
have  seen  you  wear  a  curl  each  side  of  your  face 
outside  your  hood/'  said  she. 

"  I  didn't  think  of  it  to-day,"  Dorothy  replied, 
with  forlorn  surprise. 

Madelon  went  close  to  the  other  girl  peremp 
torily,  as  if  she  had  been  her  mother,  pulled 
forward  two  soft  curls  from  under  her  hood, 
and  arranged  them  becomingly  against  the  pale 
cheeks ;  and  Dorothy  submitted. 


108  MADELOX 

Alvin  Mead  opened  the  jail  door,  and  his  great 
face  took  on  a  forbidding  scowl  when  he  saw 
Madelon  Hautville. 

"  Can't  let  ye  in,"  he  said,  gruffly.  "  Ain't  a 
visitin'  day."  He  would  have  shut  the  door  in 
their  faces  had  not  Madelon  made  a  quick  spring 
against  it. 

"  I  don't  want  to  come  in  \"  she  cried.  "  I 
don't  want  to  see  him  to-day.  It's  this  lady  who 
wants  to  see  him." 

((  Can't  see  nobody,"  said  Alvin  Mead,  filling 
up  the  door  like  a  surly  living  wedge. 

"You  must  let  us  see  him,"  persisted  Made- 
Ion.  "  She's  Parson  Fair's  daughter.  She  is 
going  to  marry  Burr  Gordon — she  must  see  him." 

Alvin  Mead  shook  his  head  stubbornly.  Then 
Dorothy  spoke,  thrusting  her  fair  face  forward, 
and  looking  up  at  him  with  terrified,  innocent 
pleading,  like  a  child,  and  yet  speaking  with  a 
gentle  lady's  authority.  "  I  beg  you  to  let  me 
come  in,  only  for  a  few  moments,"  said  she.  "  I 
will  not  make  you  any  trouble.  I  will  come  out 
directly  when  you  bid  me  to." 

Alvin  Mead  looked  at  her  a  second,  then  at 
Madelon  with  rough  inquiry.  ""Who  did  ye 
say  she  was  ?"  he  growled. 

"  Parson  Fair's  daughter,  the  lady  that's  going 
to  marry  Burr  Gordon." 

"I  can't  let  but  one  of  ye  see  him,  and  she 
can't  stay  more'n  ten  minutes,"  said  Alvin  Mead, 


MADELOST  109 

and  moved  aside,  and  Madelon  and  Dorothy  en 
tered. 

They  followed  Alvin  Mead  down  the  icy,  dark 
corridor  to  Burr's  cell  door.  He  unlocked  it, 
and  bade  Dorothy  enter.  He  cast  a  forbidding 
look  at  Madelon.  "  I  will  stand  here,"  she  said 
with  a  strange  meekness,  almost  as  if  her  heart 
were  broken ;  but  when  the  jailer  prepared  to 
follow  Dorothy  into  Burr's  cell  she  caught  him 
by  the  arm  and  tried  to  force  him  back,  and 
cried  out  sharply  that  he  should  let  her  see  him 
alone.  "  She  is  the  girl  he  is  going  to  marry,  I 
tell  you!"  she  said.  "Let  them  see  each  other 
alone.  You  cannot  come  between  two  like  that 
when  they  are  in  such  trouble." 

Alvin  Mead  looked  at  her  a  second  irresolute 
ly.  Then  he  stepped  back  in  the  corridor  and 
locked  the  cell  door.  "  That  the  gal  ?  Thought 
ye  was  the  one,"  he  said,  with  a  half-chuckle, 
with  coarse,  sharp  eyes  upon  her  face. 

"He  is  going  to  marry  her,"  Madelon  repeat 
ed.  She  stood  stiff  and  straight  like  a  statue, 
and  waited.  Once,  when  Alvin  made  an  impa 
tient  motion  as  though  to  open  the  door,  she 
restrained  him  with  such  despairing  eagerness 
that  he  drew  back  and  looked  at  her  woiider- 
ingly,  and  stood  in  surly  silence  awhile  longer. 

"  She's  got  to  come  out  now,"  he  said,  at  last. 
"I've  got  other  things  to  tend  to.  Can't  stay 
here  no  longer,  nohow.  He  unlocked  the  door 


110  MADELON 

and  threw  it  open  with  a  jerk.  "  Time's  up  I" 
he  shouted,  and  Dorothy  came  out  directly,,  al 
most  as  if  she  were  running  away.  Alyin  Mead 
clapped  to  the  door  with  a  great  jar  and  locked 
it.  Madelon,  had  she  tried,  could  not  have  got 
a  glimpse  of  Burr ;  but  she  did  not  try.  She 
sprang  at  Dorothy  Fair,  and  took  her  by  the 
shoulders,  and  looked  into  her  scared  face  with 
agonized  questioning. 

"Did — he  confess?"  she  gasped  out.  "Did 
— he  tell  you,  did  he — tell  you,  Dorothy  Fair?" 

Dorothy  shook  her  head  in  a  mute  terror  that 
was  almost  horror.  It  seemed  as  if  she  would 
sink  to  the  floor  under  Madelon's  heavy  hands. 
Alvin  Mead  stood  staring  at  them. 

"  Didn't  he — tell  you — I  was  the  one  who — 
stabbed  Lot  ?  Didn't  he— tell  you  ?" 

"  She's  at  it  again,"  muttered  Alvin  Mead. 

Dorothy  shook  her  head.  "He  wouldn't 
speak,"  she  said,  faintly.  "He  would  say  noth 
ing  about  it." 

Madelon  fairly  shook  her.  "Couldn't  you 
make  him  speak  ?  You !" 

"I  couldn't,  I  couldn't,  Madelon!" 

"Did  you  tell  him  your  heart  would  break  if 
he  didn't — that  you  couldn't  marry  him  if  he 
didn't  ?" 

"Yes  —  don't,  don't  —  look  at  me  so,  Made- 
Ion." 

Alvin  Mead  stepped  forward.     "Look  at  here 


MADELON  111 

— you're  scarin'  of  that  gal  to  death/'  he  inter 
fered.  "You'd  better  take  your  hands  off  her." 

Then  Madelon  turned  to  him,  and  grasped  at 
the  keys  in  his  hands,  as  if  she  would  wrest  them 
from  him.  "Unlock  the  door  and  let  me  in, 
and  let  Burr  Gordon  out !"  she  demanded,  wildly. 

The  jailer  wrested  his  keys  away  with  a  con 
temptuous  jerk,  and  took  the  skin  from  Made- 
Ion's  hands  with  them.  "  You're  crazy/'  he  said. 

"  I  am  not  crazy !  You've  got  an  innocent 
man  locked  up  in  there,  and  I,  who  am  guilty  and 
tell  you  so,  you  will  not  arrest.  It  is  you  who 
are  crazy.  Let  me  in  !" 

Alvin  Mead  laid  a  rough  hand  on  Madelon's 
shoulder.  "Now  you  look  at  here,  gal,"  said 
he.  "I've  had  about  all  this  darned  nonsense 
I'm  a-goin'  to  stan'.  That  chap  is  in  jail  for 
murder,  an'  in  jail  he's  a-goin'  to  stay  till  I  git  or 
ders  from  somebody  besides  you  to  let  him  out. 
An'  what's  more,  don't  you  come  here  on  no  sich 
torn-fool  arrant  agin.  If  you  do  you  won't  git  in. 
I  ain't  no  objection  to  gals  he  was  goin'  to  marry 
ef  he  hadn't  broke  the  laws  comin'  to  see  him  a 
leetle  spell,  if  they'll  go  away  peaceable  when 
they're  bid,  but  as  for  havin'  sech  highstericky 
work  as  this,  I'll  be  darned  if  I  will.  Now  I 
can't  stan'  here  f oolin'  no  longer ;  you'd  better 
be  gittin'  right  along  home,  an'  don't  you  break 
this  other  gal's  neck  with  that  old  stepper  you've 
got  out  there." 


112  MADELOK 

Madelon  Hautville  said  not  another  word.  She 
went  out  of  the  jail  quickly,  and  she  and  Dorothy 
were  soon  in  the  sleigh  and  flying  down  the  road. 
The  old  racer  was  not  so  old  nor  so  weary  that 
the  impetus  of  the  homeward  stretch  failed  to 
stir  him — for  a  mile  or  so,,  at  least.  After  that 
his  pace  slackened,  and  then  Madelon  turned  to 
the  other  girl,  who  looked  up  at  her  with  a  kind 
of  piteous  defiance.  "  What  did  you  say  to  him  ?" 
she  demanded. 

"  I — begged  him — if  he — did  not  kill  Lot  to — 
say  so/'  replied  Dorothy,  faintly ;  then  she  shrank 
and  quivered  before  the  other  girl,  who  started 
wrathfully,  half  as  if  she  would  fling  her  from 
the  sleigh. 

"If  he  did  not  kill  Lot  to  say  so  !"  repeated 
Madelon.  "  //"he  did  not !  You  know  he  did  not." 

"He  would  not  tell  me  so,"  said  Dorothy, 
with  her  stubbornness  of  meekness,  and  her  blue 
eyes  met  Madelon's,  although  there  were  tears 
welling  up  in  them. 

"Tell  you  so!"  cried  Madelon.  "'What  are 
you  made  of,  Dorothy  Fair  ?" 

"  He  would  not,"  repeated  Dorothy.  "  If  he 
was  innocent,  why  should  he  not  have  told  me 
if  he  loved  me  ?" 

Madelon  looked  at  her.  "You  don't  love 
him!"  she  cried  out,  sharply.  "You  don't  love 
him,  and  that's  why.  You  don't  love  him,  Doro 
thy  Fair !" 


MADELON  113 

Dorothy  flushed  red  and  drew  herself  up  with 
gentle  stiffness.  "You  cannot  expect  me  to 
unveil  my  heart  to  you/7  said  she. 

"You  have  betrayed  it,"  persisted  Madelon. 
"  You  don't  love  him,  Dorothy  Fair !  Shame 
on  you,  after  all !" 

"What  right  have  you  to  say  that  ?"  demand 
ed  Dorothy,  and  this  time  with  some  show  of 
anger. 

"  The  right  of  another  woman  who  does  love 
him,  and  would  save  his  life,"  Madelon  answered, 
fiercely.  "  The  right  of  a  woman  who  can  love 
more  in  an  hour  than  such  as  you  in  a  life 
time  I" 

"You— don't  know—" 

"I  do  know.  You  don't  love  him  or  you 
would  not  have  distrusted  him.  You  would 
have  made  him  tell  you  the  truth.  You  would 
have  flung  your  arms  around  him,  and  you  would 
not  have  let  him  go  until  he  told  you.  Did  you 
do  that  ?  Answer  me  :  did  you  do  that  ?" 

A  great  wave  of  red  crept  over  Dorothy's  face, 
but  she  replied,  with  cold  dignity:  "I  throw 
my  arms  around  no  man  unbidden  !" 

"  Unbidden !"  repeated  Madelon,  and  scorn 
seemed  to  sound  in  her  voice  like  the  lash  of  a 
whip.  She  flung  out  the  reins  over  the  horse's 
back,  and  they  slipped  along  swiftly  over  the 
icy  crust,  and  not  another  word  did  she  speak 
to  Dorothy  Fair  all  the  way  home. 


CHAPTER  X 

they  entered  Parson  Fair's  south  yard 
there  was  a  swift  disappearance  of  a  dark  face 
from  a  window,  and  the  door  was  flung  open, 
and  the  grimly  faithful  servant  -  woman  came 
forth  and  lifted  Dorothy  out  of  the  sleigh,  croon 
ing  the  while  in  tender  and  angry  gutturals. 
Poor  Dorothy  Fair  shook  like  a  white  flower  in 
a  wind,  for  beside  the  rigor  of  the  cold,  which 
seemed  to  pierce  her  very  soul,  the  chill  of  fever 
was  still  upon  her.  She  chattered  helplessly 
when  she  tried  to  speak,  and  there  were  sobs  in 
her  throat.  The  black  woman  half  carried  her 
into  the  house,  and  up-stairs  to  her  own  chamber, 
where  the  hearth-fire  was  blazing  bright.  She 
covered  her  up  warm  in  bed,  with  a  hot  brick  at 
her  feet,  and  dosed  her  with  warm  herb  drinks, 
and  coddled  her,  until,  after  some  piteous  weep 
ing,  she  fell  asleep. 

But  for  Madelon  Hautville  there  was  no  rest 
and  no  sleep.  She  felt  not  the  cold,  and  if  she 
had  fever  in  her  veins  the  -fierce  disregard  of  her 
straining  spirit  was  beyond  it.  No  knowledge 
of  her  body  at  all  had  Madelon  Hautville,  no 


MADELON"  115 

knowledge  of  anything  on  earth,  except  her  one 
aim — to  save  her  lover's  life.  She  was  nothing 
but  a  purpose  concentrated  upon  one  end ;  there 
was  in  her  that  great  impetus  of  the  human  will 
which  is  above  all  the  swift  forces  of  the  world 
when  once  it  is  aroused. 

She  unharnessed  the  horse  quickly  from  the 
parson's  sleigh,  and  led  him,  restive  again  at  the 
near  prospect  of  his  stall  and  feed,  back  to  the 
tavern  stable,  paid  for  him,  and  struck  out  on 
the  homeward  road,  straight  and  swift  as  one  of 
her  Indian  ancestors.  A  group  of  men  in  the 
stable  door  stood  aside  with  curious  alacrity  to 
let  her  pass ;  they  stared  after  her,  then  at  each 
other. 

"I  swan !"  said  one. 

"Wouldn't  like  to  be  in  the  way  when  that 
gal  was  headed  anywheres/'  said  another. 

"If  that  gal  belonged  to  me  I'd  get  her  some 
stronger  bits,"  said  the  man  who  had  been  clean 
ing  the  bay  horse  when  Madelon  came  for  the 
white. 

"I  believe  she's  lost  her  mind,"  said  the 
tavern-keeper.  "  It's  the  last  time  I'll  ever  let 
her  have  a  horse,  and  I  told  her  so."  There 
came  a  blast  of  northwest  wind  which  buffeted 
them  about  their  faces  and  chests  like  an  icy 
flail,  and  they  scattered  before  it,  some  to  their 
duties  in  the  stable,  some  into  the  warm  tavern 
for  a  mug  of  something  hot  to  do  away  with  the 


116  MADELON 

chill.  It  was  too  cold  a  day  to  gossip  in  a  door 
way.  It  was  not  long  past  noon,  but  the  cold 
had  seemed  to  strengthen  as  the  sun  rode  higher. 
The  wind  blew  from  the  icy  northwest  more 
frequently  in  fiercer  gusts.  Madelon  Hautville 
sped  along  before  it,  her  red  cloak  flying  out 
like  a  flag,  and  took  no  thought  of  it  at  all. 
She  was,  while  still  in  the  flesh  and  upon  the 
earth,  so  intensified  in  spirit  that  there  existed 
for  her  consciousness  neither  heat  nor  cold. 
She  reached  the  old  road,  the  short-cut,  stretched 
down  through  the  stiff  white  woods  to  her  own 
home ;  she  hastened  along  it  a  little  way,  then 
she  stopped  and  faced  back  and  stood  irresolute. 
The  icy  wind  stiffened  her  face,  but  she  did  not 
note  it.  She  looked  back  at  the  road  with  its 
blue  snow-furrows  stretching  between  the  deso 
late  woods,  at  the  spires  and  roofs  of  the  village 
beyond.  If  one  followed  that  road  to  the  village 
and  took  the  first  one  upon  the  right,  and  trav 
elled  ten  miles,  one  would  come  to  the  town  of 
Kingston. 

Madelon  began  moving  along  on  the  road  to 
the  village,  vaguely  at  first,  as  if  half  in  a  dream, 
then  with  gathering  purpose.  Back  she  went, 
in  her  tracks,  straight  to  the  village  and  the  tav 
ern  stable,  and  asked  of  Dexter  Beers  another 
horse  to  drive  to  Kingston.  But  he  refused  her, 
standing  before  her,  blocking  the  stable  door, 
looking  aside  with  a  kind  of  timid  doggedness. 


MADELON  117 

"  Can't  let  ye  have  another  horse  to-day  nohow/' 
said  he  ;  "too  cold  to  let  'em  out." 

"  I'll  pay  you  well/'  said  Madelon. 

"  Pay  ain't  no  object.  Can't  let  none  of  'em 
out  but  the  stage-horses  in  no  sech  weather  as 
this."  Still  Dexter  Beers  did  not  look  at  Made- 
Ion's  stern  and  angry  eyes  ;  he  gazed  intently  at 
a  post  in  an  icy  slant  of  snow  in  the  yard  on  the 
left. 

He  had  the  usual  masculine  dread  of  an  angry 
woman,  and,  moreover,  he  had  a  sharp-tongued 
wife,  but  he  had  also  the  masculine  tenacity  of  a 
position.  He  stared  at  the  post  as  if  his  spirit 
held  fast  to  it,  and  braced  itself  against  the  tor 
rent  of  feminine  wrath  which  he  expected ;  but 
it  did  not  come.  Madelon  Hautville  set  her 
mouth  hard,  wrapped  her  red  cloak  around  her 
with  a  firm  gesture,  as  if  she  were  a  soldier  about 
to  start  on  a  long  march,  and  walked  out  of  the 
yard  and  up  the  road  without  another  word. 

"I  SAvaii  !"  said  Dexter  Beers. 

The  red-faced  hostler  approached  with  a  pail 
in  each  hand  bound  for  the  well ;  he  was  water 
ing  the  coach-horses  for  the  next  relay.  "  What's 
up  ?"  he  inquired,  pushing  past  him. 

"I'll  be  darned  if  I  don't  believe  that  gal  of 
Hautville's  has  started  to  walk  to  Kingston, 
'cause  I  wouldn't  let  her  have  another  horse  !" 

"Let  her  go  it,"  droned  the  red-faced  man, 
with  a  short  chuckle. 


118  MADELO^ 

"  Hope  she  won't  freeze  her  feet  nor  nothin'," 
said  Dexter  Beers,  uneasily. 

"  Let  her  go  it !"  said  the  red-faced  man, 
swinging  across  the  yard  with  his  pails. 

Madelon  Hautville  walked  on  steadily.  She 
reached  the  right-hand  turn,  and  then  she  was 
on  the  direct  Kingston  road,  with  a  ten-mile 
stretch  before  her.  It  was  past  one  o'clock,  and 
she  could  not  reach  her  journey's  end  much  be 
fore  dark. 

About  two  miles  after  the  turn  of  the  road  the 
more  thickly  set  habitations  ceased,  and  there 
were  only  isolated  farm-houses,  with  long,  sloping 
reaches  of  woods  and  pasture  -  lands  between. 
The  pasture-lands  were  hummocked  with  ice- 
coated  rocks  and  hooped  with  frozen  vines  ;  they 
seemed  to  flow  down  in  glittering  waves,  like 
glaciers,  over  the  hill-sides.  The  woods  stood 
white  and  petrified,  as  woods  might  have  done 
in  a  glacial  era.  There  was  no  sound  in  them 
except  now  and  then  the  crack  of  a  bough  under 
the  weight  of  ice,  and  slow,  painful  responses, 
like  the  twangs  of  rusty  harp  -  strings,  to  the 
harder  gusts  of  wind.  The  cold  was  so  intense 
that  the  ice  did  not  melt  in  the  noonday  sun, 
and  there  were  no  soft  droppings  and  gurglings 
to  modify  this  rigor  of  white  light  and  sound. 
Occasionally  a  rabbit  crossed  Madelon's  path, 
silent  as  a  little  gray  scudding  shadow,  and  so 
swiftly  that  he  did  not  reach  one's  consciousness 


MADELOK  119 

until  he  was  out  of  sight.  There  was  seldom  a 
winter  bird,  even,  in  sight.  The  ice  on  the  trees 
and  the  pastures  had  locked  and  sealed  their 
larders.  Their  little  beaks  could  not  pierce  it 
for  seeds  and  grubs,  and  so  they  were  forced  to 
repair  to  kitchen  doors  and  barnyards  in  quest 
of  stray  crumbs  from  the  provender  of  men  and 
cattle. 

The  rabbits,  and  an  ox-team  drawing  a  sled 
laden  with  cedar  logs,  slipping  with  shrill,  long 
squeaks  over  the  white  road,  driven  by  a  man 
with  a  red  face  in  an  ambush  of  frozen  beard, 
were  all  the  living  things  she  met  for  the  first 
four  miles.  The  man  clambered  stiffly  down 
from  his  sled  just  before  he  met  her,  and  began 
walking,  stamping,  rubbing  his  ears,  and  swing 
ing  his  arms  violently  the  while.  He  stared 
hard  at  Madelon,  and  gave  a  sort  of  grunt  as  he 
passed.  It  was  an  instinctive  note  of  comrade 
ship  with  another  in  a  situation  hard  for  their 
common  humanity.  The  man,  toiling  painfully 
along  that  hard  road,  on  that  bitter  day,  with 
hands  and  feet  half  frost-bitten,  and  face  smart 
ing  as  if  with  fire,  his  aching  lungs  straining 
with  the  icy  air,  felt  that  he  and  the  woman 
struggling  over  the  same  road  had  common  cause 
for  wrath  against  this  stress  of  nature,  and  so 
made  that  half-surly,  half -sympathetic  grunt  as 
he  passed  her.  But  she  did  not  respond.  She 
did  not  even  glance  at  him  as  she  went  along. 


120  MADELOK 

Her  face  glowed  all  over,,  red  as  a  rose  with  the 
freezing  wind ;  she  wrapped  her  cloak  instinct 
ively  tight  around  her,  and  walked  a  little  stiffly, 
as  if  her  feet  might  be  somewhat  numb  ;  but 
there  was  in  her  fixed  dark  eyes  no  recognition 
of  anything  but  some  end  she  had  in  view  beyond 
his  ken. 

The  man  stopped  and  looked  seriously  after 
her,  and  past  her  down  the  road.  "  Wonder 
what  she's  up  to  I"  he  muttered.  Then  he  strug 
gled  on  after  his  oxen,  who  plodded  along  with 
goafs-beards  of  their  frozen  breath  hanging  from 
their  jaws. 

Two  miles  farther  on  there  was  a  sudden  loud 
blast  of  a  horn,  and  following  upon  it  a  great 
jangle  of  bells  and  the  tramp  of  hoofs,  and  Made- 
Ion  knew  the  Ware  and  Kingston  stage  was  com 
ing.  Presently  the  top  of  the  coach  and  the 
leaders'  heads  appeared  above  the  rise  of  the 
road,  and  Madelon  stood  well  aside  to  meet  it, 
pressing  in  among  the  crackling  icy  bushes. 

There  was  another  blast  of  the  horn,  then  a 
wild  rush  of  sure-footed  horses  down  the  hill, 
and  the  coach  was  past,  going  towards  Ware. 
Madelon  had  caught  only  a  glimpse  of  the  frost- 
white  driver  on  the  box,  a  man  beside  him 
shrugged  up  miserably  in  great-coat  and  com 
forter,  with  back  rounded  and  head  bent  against 
the  cold,  and  some  chilled  faces  in  the  windows. 
Some  of  the  passengers  had  come  from  Wolver- 


MADELON  121 

ton,  ten  miles  past  Kingston,  and  one  might 
freeze  to  death  on  a  long  stage  journey  a  day  like 
that.  There  was,  perhaps,  less  danger  in  a  walk, 
but  there  was  danger  in  that  should  the  cold  in 
crease,  and  it  did  increase  hourly.  Madelon's 
feet  grew  more  and  more  numb.  She  stamped 
them  from  time  to  time,  but  more  from  instinct 
than  from  any  real  appreciation  of  the  discom 
fort  they  gave  her.  So  wrought  up  was  she  with 
zeal  that  it  seemed  she  might  have  set  out  to 
walk,  through  a  fiery  furnace  as  soon  as  through 
this  frozen  waste,  and  perhaps  have  had  her  flesh 
consumed  to  ashes,  with  her  soul  still  intent 
upon  its  one  purpose.  All  thought  of  her  own 
self,  save  as  an  instrument  to  save  the  life  of  the 
man  she  loved,  was  gone  out  of  the  girl.  Jeal 
ousy  was  purged  out  of  her ;  all  resentment  for 
faithlessness,  all  longing  for  possession  were  gone. 
She  bore  in  her  heart  the  greatest  love  of  her 
life  as  she  sped  along  down  the  frozen  road  to 
Kingston. 

The  last  two  miles  of  the  way  poor  Madelon 
struggled  hard  to  cover.  She  drew  short,  gasp 
ing  breaths,  as  if  she  were  on  a  high  mountain- 
top.  The  cold  strengthened  as  the  daylight 
waned.  The  very  air  seemed  frozen  and  resolved 
into  a  cutting  diamond-dust  of  frost.  Suddenly 
Madelon  awoke  to  the  fear  that  she  could  not 
walk  much  farther.  She  had  eaten  nothing  since 
morning  ;  the  cold  and  fatigue  were  consuming 


122  MADELON 

her  life  as  the  flame  consumes  the  wick  of  the 
lamp  when  the  oil  is  lacking. 

"I  must  get  there  I"  she  said  to  herself.  She 
stamped  her  numb  feet  desperately.  She  beat 
herself  pitilessly  with  her  stiff  hands.  She  set 
forth  on  a  run  towards  Kingston,  and  quickened 
her  blood  a  little  in  that  way,  although  she 
panted  and  fairly  gasped  for  breath. 

She  drew  a  sigh  of  relief  when  she  gained  the 
last  rise  in  the  road,  and  the  town  of  Kingston 
lay  before  her  a  mile  in  the  valley.  It  was  grow 
ing  dark  and  the  village  lights  were  coming  out 
when  she  had  passed  the  straggling  farms  and 
come  into  the  little  centre  of  the  town  where  the 
stores,  the  meeting-houses,  and  the  tavern  were 
grouped. 

The  village  main  street  looked  almost  deserted. 
There  was  only  one  sleigh  in  sight,  drawn  up  in 
front  of  a  store.  The  horse  was  well  covered 
with  a  buffalo-skin  and  an  old  bed-quilt  in  addi 
tion,  which  his  master's  wife  had  doubtless  pro 
vided  on  account  of  the  terrible  cold. 

As  Madelon  reached  the  store  a  man  came  out 
with  a  molasses- jug  in  hand  and  arms  clasping 
parcels,  which  he  began  stowing  away  under  the 
seat  of  the  sleigh.  Madelon  went  up  to  him. 
"  Can  you  tell  me  where  Mr.  Otis  lives  ?"  said 
she.  She  could  scarcely  enunciate.  Her  very 
tongue  seemed  stiff  with  the  cold. 

The  man  turned  and  stared  at  her  with  sharp 


MADELON  123 

blue  eyes  under  red  brows  frost  -  white  between 
his  cap  and  twice-wound  red  tippet.  "  Hey  ?" 
he  said,  in  a  muffled  voice. 

"  Can  you  tell  me  where  Mr.  Otis  lives  ?" 

"  Otis  ?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  Which  Otis  d'ye  mean  ?  There's  two  Otises. 
D'ye  mean  Calvin  Otis  or  Jim  Otis  ?" 

"  He  has  a  son  that  plays  the  fiddle/'  answered 
Madelon,  faintly. 

"Then  it's  Jim  ye  mean.  He  died  last  year. 
He  had  a  son  Jim  that  plays  the  fiddle.  Lives 
down  the  road  on  the  left-hand  side,  five  houses 
below  the  meeting-house.  House  with  three 
popple-trees  in  front — sets  close  to  the  road." 

Madelon  started,  but  the  man's  voice  arrested 
her.  "  You  look  most  froze,"  said  he.  "  Hadn't 
ye  better  go  in  there  an'  warm  up  ?"  He  pointed 
towards  the  store-windows  with  a  rosy  glow  of 
light  and  warmth  transfusing  their  thick  layers 
of  frost.  "It's  pipin'  hot  in  there — warm  ye  all 
through  in  a  minute.  It's  a  terrible  cold  night. 
Old  man  in  there,  lived  'round  these  parts  risin' 
eighty  years,  says  he  never  knew  sech  a  night. 
Better  just  step  in  there." 

Madelon  shook  her  head  and  started  on. 

"  Where  did  ye  come  from  ?"  called  the  man. 

"Ware  Centre,"  Madelon  gasped  out,  as  the 
freezing  wind  struck  her. 

"  Good  Lord  !  you  don't  mean  to  say  you've 


124  MADELON 

walked  risin'  ten  mile  from  Ware  Centre  a  day 
like  this !" 

Madelon  was  gone,  bending  before  the  wind, 
without  another  word. 

"  Good  Lord  !"  said  the  man,  "a  woman  walk- 
in'  from  Ware  Centre  this  weather  !"  He  stood 
staring  after  the  girFs  retreating  figure  ;  then  he 
started  to  unblanket  his  horse.  But  he  stopped 
and  stared  again,  and  finally  went  into  the  store 
to  tell  the  news. 

Madelon  kept  on  as  fast  as  she  was  able,  but 
she  was  nearly  spent.  Her  exultation  of  spirit 
might  indeed  survive  fleshly  exhaustion  and  per 
haps  in  a  measure  overcome  it,  but  it  could  not 
prevent  it  altogether.  When  she  reached  the 
fifth  house  below  the  white  meeting-house,  the 
house  set  close  to  the  road,  with  three  poplar- 
trees  in  front,  she  had  just  strength  enough  to 
stagger  to  the  door  and  raise  the  knocker.  Then 
she  leaned  against  the  door-post,  and  it  was  only 
with  a  fierce  effort  that  she  kept  her  grasp  upon 
her  consciousness.  She  did  not  seem  to  feel  her 
body  at  all. 


CHAPTER   XI 

PRESENTLY  a  bolt  was  shot  and  the  door 
pushed  open  with  an  effort.  It  was  little  used, 
and  there  was  ice  against  it.  Then  a  man's  face 
peered  out  irresolutely  into  the  dusk.  A  knock 
upon  the  front  door,  upon  a  night  like  this, 
seemed  so  unlikely  that  he  doubted  if  he  had 
heard  rightly. 

"Anybody  here  ?"  he  said.  Then  he  saw  the 
woman's  figure  propped  stiffly  against  the  door 
post.  "  Who  is  it  ?"  he  asked,  in  a  startled  voice. 
"  Is  it  you,  Mrs.  Lane  ?" 

Madelon  aroused  herself.  "I  want  to  see 
Mr.  Otis's  son  a  minute  if  I  can,"  she  said,  with 
a  great  effort.  Then  she  raised  her  piteous  eyes 
to  the  face  before  her,  and  realized  dimly  that  it 
was  the  face  of  the  young  man  who  had  taken 
her  place  at  the  ball,  and  sent  her  homeward  to 
work  all  this  misery  on  that  dreadful  night. 

"  I  am  Mr.  Otis's  son/7  returned  the  young 
man,  wonderingly.  "  What " —  then  he  gave  a 
cry — "why,  it  is  you  \" 

"I  want — to — see  you — a  minute,"  said  Made- 
Ion,  and  her  voice  sounded  far  away  in  her  own 
ears. 


126  MADELOK 

The  young  man  started.  "  Why,  you're  half 
frozen/'  he  cried  out,  "and  here  I  am  keeping 
you  standing  out  here  !  Come  in." 

Madelon  shrank  back.  "No,"  she  faltered, 
"I — only  want  to  ask — J 

But  Jim  Otis  took  her  by  the  arm  with  gentle 
force,  and  she  was  so  spent  that  she  could  but 
let  him  have  his  way,  and  lead  her  into  the 
house  and  the  warm  living-room,  staggering  un 
der  his  supporting  clasp. 

"Mother,"  called  Jim  Otis — "mother,  come 
here,  quick  !"  He  placed  Madelon  tenderly  on 
the  settle,  and  his  mother  came  hurriedly  out  of 
the  pantry. 

"  What  is  it  ?"  she  asked.  "  What  is  the  mat 
ter,  Jim  ?  Who  was  it  knocked  ?  Why,  who's 
that  ?" 

Madelon  leaned  back  helplessly  in  the  corner 
of  the  settle,  her  head  hanging  half  unconscious 
ly.  The  young  man  stooped  over  her  and  un 
fastened  her  cloak  and  hood.  "Come  here, 
quick,  mother!"  he  cried,  and  his  voice  was  as 
sweet  with  pity  as  a  woman's.  "  This  poor  girl 
is  half  dead  with  the  cold." 

Mrs.  Otis,  large  and  fair-faced,  with  her  soft, 
massive  curves  swathed  in  purple  thibet,  stared 
for  a  second  in  speechless  wonder.  "  Who  is  it  ? 
How  did  she  get  here  ?"  she  whispered. 

"  Hush — I  don't  know.  She's  from  Ware  Cen 
tre.  Her  name's  Hautville." 


MADELOH  127 

"  Seems  to  me  I've  heard  of  her.  What  has 
she  come  here  for,  Jim  ?" 

"  Hush — I  don't  know.  She'll  hear  you.  Go 
and  get  something  hot  for  her  to  drink.  I  saw 
her  at  the  ball  the  other  night.  Go  quick,  mother." 

"I'll  get  her  some  brandy  cordial,"  said  Mrs. 
Otis,  with  sudden  alacrity.  She  needed  time 
always  to  get  her  mental  bearing  thoroughly  in 
any  emergency,  but  action  was  prompt  afterwards. 
She  made  a  quick  motion  towards  the  cupboard, 
but  Madelon  aroused  herself  suddenly.  Her 
senses  had  lapsed  for  a  few  minutes  upon  com 
ing  into  the  warm  room.  "  Where  am  I  ?"  she 
asked,  in  a  bewildered  way. 

"Incur  house,"  replied  Mrs.  Otis,  promptly. 
"Jim  just  brought  you  in,  and  it's  lucky  you 
come  just  as  you  did,  for  I  don't  know  but  you'd 
froze  to  death  if  you'd  been  out  much  longer. 
Now,  I'll  get  you  some  of  my  brandy  cordial,  and 
that'll  warm  you  right  up.  Did  you  come  way 
over  from  Ware  Centre  this  dreadful  night  ?" 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  replied  Madelon,  with  the  dazed 
look  still  in  her  eyes.  Mrs.  Otis  looked  back  on 
her  way  to  the  cupboard. 

"  Eode  way  over  from  Ware  Centre  in  an  open 
sleigh  ?"  she  said. 

"No,  ma'am  ;  I  walked." 

Mrs.  Otis  stopped  and  looked  at  Madelon  with 
a  gasp,  then  at  her  son.  "  She's  out  of  her  head, 
I'm  afraid,"  said  she. 


128  MADELCW 

"  You  didn't  really  walk  over  from  Ware  Cen 
tre  ?"  questioned  Jim. 

"Yes,  I  did/'  replied  Madelon.  She  stood  up 
with  sudden  decision.  "I  want  to  see  you  a 
minute/'  she  said  to  Jim.  Then  she  turned  to 
Mrs.  Otis.  "I  don't  need  anything  to  take/' 
said  she.  "  I  was  only  a  little  dizzy  for  a  minute 
when  I  came  into  this  warm  room.  I  feel  better 
now.  I  only  want  to  ask  your  son  a  question, 
then  I  must  go  home — " 

Before  Mrs.  Otis  could  speak  she  asked  the 
question  with  no  preface. 

"  Didn't  you  see  him  give  me  the  knife  ?"  she 
cried  out,  with  fiercely  imploring  eyes  upon  Jim 
Otis's  face. 

The  young  man  turned  deadly  white.  He 
looked  at  her  and  did  not  answer. 

"Didn't  you  ?"  she  repeated. 

"What  knife  ?"  asked  Jim  Otis,  sloAvly. 

"You  know  what  knife  !  The  knife  that  my 
brother  handed  me  when  I  started  home  from 
the  ball — the  knife  that  I  stabbed  Lot  Gordon 
with.  Tell  me  that  you  saw  it,  that  you  saw  me 
take  it,  here  before  your  mother,  and  then  you 
must  go  to  New  Salem  and  testify,  and  set  Burr 
Gordon  free  !  He  is  in  prison  for  murder,  and  I 
am  guilty,  and  they  will  not  believe  it.  You 
must  tell  them,  and  they  will.  You  saw  my 
brother  give  me  that  knife." 

Still  Jim  Otis,  with  his  white  face,  stood  look- 


MADELON  129 

ing  at  her,  and  answered  not  a  word.  His 
mother,  continually  opening  her  mouth  to  speak, 
then  shutting  it,  looked  first  at  one,  then  at  the 
other,  with  round,  dilated  eyes,  turning  her  head 
and  quivering  all  over  her  soft  bulk,  like  some 
great  agitated  and  softly  feathered  bird. 

"Why  don't  you  speak?"  demanded  Made- 
Ion. 

"What  is  it  you  want  me  to  say?"  said  Jim 
Otis,  then,  hesitatingly. 

"  Say  ?  Say  that  you  saw  my  brother  Eichard 
give  me  the  knife  that  I  did  the  deed  with." 

Jim  Otis  stood  silent,  with  his  pale,  handsome 
face  bent  doggedly  towards  the  floor. 

"  Say  so  !     You  saw  it !" 

Still  Jim  Otis  did  not  speak,  and  Madelon 
pressed  close  to  him,  and  thrust  her  agonized 
face  before  his.  "Have  mercy  upon  me  and 
speak !"  she  groaned. 

"Jim,  what  does  she  mean  ?"  asked  his  moth 
er,  in  a  frightened  whisper.  "Is  she  out  of  her 
head  ?" 

"No;  hush,  mother,"  replied  Jim.  Then  he 
turned  to  the  girl.  "No,"  he  said,  with  stern, 
defiant  eyes  upon  her  face,  "I  did  not  see  your 
brother  give  you  the  knife." 

"You  did  !  I  know  you  did  !" 

"I  did  not!" 

"You  did  see  him !  You  were  looking  at  us 
when  I  went  out !" 

9 


130  MADELON 

"I  was  tightening  a  string  in  the  fiddle  when 
you  went  out,"  said  Jim  Otis. 

"Yon  must  have  seen." 

"I  tell  you  I  did  not." 

Madelon  looked  at  him  as  if  she  would  pene 
trate  his  soul,  and  he  met  her  eyes  fully. 

"  I  did  not  see  your  brother  give  you  the  knife,," 
he  replied,  with  a  steady,  unflinching  look  at  her ; 
but  a  long  shudder  went  over  him  as  he  spoke. 
The  first  deliberate  lie  of  his  whole  life  was  Jim 
Otis  telling,  for  he  had  seen  Richard  Hautville 
give  his  sister  the  knife. 

Madelon  believed  his  lie  at  last,  and  turned 
away.  What  with  her  sore  exhaustion  of  body 
and  this  last  disappointment  her  heart  almost 
failed  her.  She  went  back  to  the  settle  for  her 
cloak  and  her  hood,  and  tied  them  on,  while  the 
others  stood  watching  her,  seemingly  in  a  maze. 
She  made  for  the  door,  but  Jim  Otis  stopped  her. 

"You  cannot  go  back  to  Ware  Centre  to 
night,"  he  said. 

Madelon  looked  at  him  with  proud  determina 
tion,  although  she  could  scarce  stand.  "I  must 
go,"  said  she,  and  would  have  pressed  past  him, 
but  he  took  hold  of  her  arm. 

"Mother,"  he  said,  "tell  her  she  cannot  go. 
There  has  been  no  such  night  as  this  for  forty 
years,  and  it  is  dark  now.  To-morrow  morning 
I  will  carry  her  home ;  but  to-night,  as  she  is,  it 
is  out  of  the  question.  Tell  her  so,  mother." 


MADELOK  131 

Mrs.  Otis  gathered  herself  together  then,,  and 
came  forward  and  laid  hold  of  Madelon's  arm, 
and  strove  to  pull  her  back  towards  the  settle. 
"Come,"  said  she,  as  if  Madelon  were  a  child — 
"come,  that's  a  good  girl.  You  stay  with  us 
till  morning,  and  then  my  son  shall  hitch  up  and 
carry  you  home.  I  shouldn't  dare  to  have  him 
go  way  over  to  Ware  Centre  to-night,  cold  as  'tis. 
He  ain't  very  tough.  You  stay  here  with  us  to 
night,  and  don't  worry  anything  about  it.  I 
don't  know  what  you're  talkin'  about,  an'  I  guess 
you  don't — you  are  all  wore  out,  poor  child ;  but 
I  guess  there  didn't  nobody  have  any  knife,  and 
I  guess  he'll  git  out  of  prison  pretty  soon.  You 
just  take  off  your  things,  and  I'll  get  some  pil 
lows  out  of  the  bedroom,  and  you  lay  down  on 
the  settle  by  the  fire  while  I  get  some  supper. 
The  kettle's  on  now.  And  then  I'll  heat  the 
warming-pan  and  get  the  spare-room  bed  as  warm 
as  toast,  and  mix  you  up  a  tumbler  of  hot  brandy 
cordial,  and  then  you  drink  it  all  down  and  get 
right  into  bed.  and  I'll  tuck  you  up,  and  I  guess 
you'll  feel  better  in  the  morning,  and  things  will 
look  different." 

"Let  me  go,"  Madelon  said  to  Jim  Otis. 

"She  mustn't  go,  mother,"  he  said,  never  look 
ing  at  Madelon  at  all,  although  he  still  held  fast 
to  her  straining  arm. 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Otis,  "you  ain't  no  daugh 
ter  of  mine,  and  if  you  set  out  to  go  I  suppose  I 


132  MADELON 

ain't  any  right  to  hinder  you.  But  there's  one 
thing  maybe  you  ain't  thought  of — I  can't  let 
my  son  take  you  'way  over  to  Ware  Centre  a 
night  like  this,  nohow.  He's  all  Fve  got  now, 
and  I  can't  have  anything  happen  to  him.  He 
can't  go  with  you,  and  there  ain't  any  stable 
here,  and  there  ain't  a  neighbor  round  here  that 
will  hitch  up  and  carry  you  there  to-night,  and — 
I  suppose  you  know,  if  you've  got  common- 
sense,  that  if  you  set  out  to  walk  there,  the  way 
you  are,  you  don't  stand  much  chance  of  gettin' 
there  alive." 

Madelon  stared  at  her. 

"  I  don't  really  know  myself  what  you  and  my 
son  have  been  talkin'  about,"  continued  Mrs. 
Otis,  "but  near's  I  can  make  out  you  think 
you've  done  something  wrong,  and  somebody's 
in  prison  you  want  to  get  out.  I  suppose  you've 
got  sense  enough  to  know  that  if  you  freeze  to 
death  going  home  to-night  you  can't  do  any 
thing  more  to  get  him  out.  Then  there's  another 
thing — it's  night.  You  can't  do  much  to  get 
him  out  anyway  before  morning.  I  don't  believe 
they  ever  let  folks  out  at  night,  and  my  son 
shall  carry  you  over  just  as  soon  as  it's  fit  in  the 
morning,  and  you'll  do  just  as  much  good  as  if 
you  went  to-night." 

Still  Madelon  stood  staring  at  her.  Then 
presently  she  began  unfastening  her  hood  and 
cloak.  "If  you  can  keep  me  till  morning  I  shall 


MADELON  133 

be  obliged/"  she  said,  with  a  kind  of  stern  grati 
tude. 

"  Stay  just  as  well  as  not  I"  cried  Mrs.  Otis. 
"Jim,  just  take  her  things  and  lay  "em  in  the 
bedroom.  Then  you  have  her  set  right  down 
close  to  the  hearth,  and  get  all  warmed  through, 
while  I  get  supper." 

Handsome  young  Jim  Otis  stood  by  with  his 
brows  knit  moodily  while  Madelon  Hautville  re 
moved  her  wraps,  then  took  them  over  his  arm,, 
and  conducted  her  to  the  warm  seat  in  the 
hearth-corner  which  his  mother  designated. 

In  his  heart  he  judged  this  girl  whom  he  was 
defending  to  be  guilty,  yet  was  full  of  iiitensest 
admiration,  and  was  sorely  torn  between  the  two 
and  his  own  remorse  over  his  false  witnessing. 
"  If  I'm  called  into  court  and  sworn  on  the  Bible, 
I  won't  own  up  that  I  saw  her  take  that  knife/' 
he  muttered  to  himself,  as  he  laid  the  red  cloak 
and  hood  on  the  high  feather-bed  in  his  mother's 
room. 

This  handsome,  stalwart  young  man,  who  had 
hitherto  been  considered  full  of  a  gay  audacity 
where  womenfolk  were  concerned,  able  to  make 
almost  any  pretty  girl  nutter  at  his  smile,  was 
strangely  abashed  before  this  beautiful  Madelon 
Hautville,  stained,  in  his  eyes,  with  crime.  He 
brought  in  wood  and  mended  the  hearth  fire ; 
he  moved  about  doing  such  household  tasks  as 
were  allotted  to  his  masculine  hands,  and  scarcely 


134  MADELOK 

let  his  eyes  rest  once  upon  the  girl  in  the  chim 
ney-corner.  He  dreaded  the  sight  of  that 
beautiful  face  which  gave  him  such  a  shock  of 
pity  and  admiration  and  horror.  Jim  Otis's  mind 
could  not  compass  this  new  revelation  of  a  wom 
an,,  but  he  would  not  betray  her  even  for  her  own 
pleading  if  he  went  down  perjured  to  his  grave. 
So  valiant  was  he  in  her  defence  that  he  with 
stood  her  against  her  own  self. 

Madelon's  mother  had  died  when  she  was 
a  little  girl.  She  could  not  fairly  remember 
that  ever  in  her  whole  life  she  had  been  so 
tended  and  petted  as  she  was  that  night  by 
Jim  Otis's  mother.  Kind  indeed  her  father  and 
her  brothers  had  always  been  to  her.  They  had 
watched  over  her  with  jealous  fondness,  and  had 
taken  all  rougher  tasks  upon  themselves,  but  the 
devotion  of  woman,  which  extends  to  all  the 
minor  details  of  life,  she  had  never  known. 

She  had  never  had  a  supper-table  set  out  for 
her  own  especial  pleasure  with  this  and  that 
dish  to  tempt  her  appetite,  as  Mrs.  Otis  set  out 
hers  that  night.  A  dish  of  a  fine  and  subli 
mated  porridge  did  Mrs.  Otis  make  for  her — a 
porridge  mixed  with  cream  and  sprinkled  with 
nutmeg  and  fat  plums.  "I  thought  some  hot 
porridge  would  do  you  good,"  said  Mrs.  Otis, 
when  she  sat  the  smoking  bowl  before  Madelon. 
Then  she  whispered  low,  that  her  son,  who  was 
putting  another  stick  on  the  fire  before  coming 


MADELON  135 

to  table,  might  not  hear,  "It's  the  same  kind  of 
porridge  I  had  after  my  son  was  born — with 
cream  and  plums  in  it.  I  used  to  think  there 
never  was  anything  so  good."  This  porridge 
might  well  have  possessed  a  flavor  of  the  sweet 
est  memories  of  motherhood  to  the  older  woman, 
but  to  the  girl,  wild  with  longing  to  be  gone  and 
carry  out  her  purpose,  manna  from  heaven 
would  not  have  yielded  its  full  measure  of  sweet 
ness. 

She  would  scarcely  have  eaten  at  all  had  not 
Jim  Otis's  mother  remarked,  as  she  watched  her 
reluctant  sips  of  the  good  porridge,  "As  I  said 
just  now,  you  ain't  any  daughter  of  mine,  and  I 
ain't  any  right  to  dictate,  but  if  you  want  to  get 
that  man,  whoever  lie  is,  out  of  prison,  you'll 
have  to  eat  enough  to  get  some  strength  to  do 
it." 

Simply  placid  as  Mrs.  Otis  looked,  she  had 
often  wisdom  enough  to  gain  her  ends  by  means 
of  that  shrewd  finesse  of  government  which  ap 
peals  to  the  reason  of  others  as  applied  to  the 
furthering  of  their  own  desires. 

Madelon  after  that  swallowed  her  porridge  al 
most  greedily,  and  when  supper  was  over  went 
up-stairs  to  bed,  following  Mrs.  Otis  as  readily 
as  any  meek  young  daughter  of  her  own  might 
have  done.  The  spirit  of  resistance  was  laid  for 
the  time  in  this  poor  Madelon  Hautville,  but  it 
had  yielded,  after  all,  more  to  the  will  of  her  own 


136  MADELON 

reason  than  to  Jim  Otis's  mother  or  the  weari 
ness  of  her  own  flesh. 

When  Mrs.  Otis  came  doAvn- stairs  she  was 
flushed  with  pleasant  motherly  victory.  "She's 
drunk  all  that  hot  cordial,"  she  said  to  her  son, 
"  every  drop  of  it,  and  I've  tucked  her  into  bed 
Avith  the  extra  comfortables  over  her,  an'  she  eat 
quite  a  good  supper,  an'  I  told  her  to  go  right  to 
sleep,  and  I  guess  she  will." 

"If  she  don't  she'll  be  down  sick,"  said  Jim, 
sternly.  He  sat  by  the  fire,  tuning  his  fiddle. 

"  She  can't  hear  your  fiddle  so  it'll  keep  her 
awake,  can  she  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Otis,  anxiously. 

"  Of  course  she  can't,  up  in  the  front  chamber, 
with  all  the  doors  shut.  Wouldn't  have  touched 
it  if  she  could." 

"  Well,  I  don't  s'pose  she  can.     Jim — " 

Jim  twanged  a  string.     "What  is  it,  mother  ?" 

"  I  don't  want  to  have  you  think  I'm  interfer- 
in',  Jim.  I  know  you're  grown-up  now,  and  I 
know  there's  things  a  young  man  might  not  want 
to  tell  his  mother  till  he  gets  ready,  but  I  do 
kind  of  want  to  know  one  thing,  Jim." 

Jim  tightened  the  G  string.  He  bent  his  face  low 
over  his  violin.  "  I  don't  know  as  I've  ever  kept 
much  back  from  you,  mother,"  he  said,  soberly. 

"  No,  I  know  you  ain't,  Jim;  you've  always  told 
more  to  your  mother  than  most  boys.  But  I 
didn't  just  know  but  this  might  be  something  you 
hadn't  got  ready  to  speak  about." 


MADELOK  137 

"What  is  it  you  want  to 'know,  mother  ?" 

"Jim,  is  that  jour  girl  9" 

Jim  laughed  a  little,  although  his  eyes  were 
grave ;  he  raised  the  fiddle  to  his  shoulder. 
"Lord,  no,  mother.  I  wouldn't  get  a  girl  with 
out  asking  you." 

"I  didn't  know  but  you  might  have  seen  her 
over  to  Ware  when  you've  been  there  to  parties, 
and  not  said  anything." 

"I  never  saw  her  but  that  once,  mother." 
Jim  struck  up  "Kinloch  of  Kinloch,"  but  he 
played  softly,  lest  by  any  chance  Madelon,  aloft 
in  her  chamber,  might  hear. 

"  She's  handsome  as  a  picture/'  said  his  moth 
er.  "Who  is  it  that's  in  prison,  Jim  ?" 

"A  young  man  by  the  name  of  Gordon." 

"What  for?" 

"They  think  he  stabbed  his  cousin." 

"  My  sakes  !     Do  you  s'pose  he  did,  Jim  ?" 

"I  don't  know,  mother.     I  wasn't  there." 

"I  s'pose  the  young  man  that  did  it  is  this 
girl's  beau,  and  that's  why  she's  so  crazy  to  get 
him  out." 

Jim  played  the  merry  measure  softly,  and 
made  no  reply. 

His  mother  stood  before  him  quivering  with 
curiosity,  which  she  restrained  lest  it  defeat 
its  own  ends.  She  had  learned  early  that  too 
impetuous  feminine  questioning  is  apt  to  strike  a 
dead-wall  in  the  masculine  mind. 


138  MADELON 

"I  didn't  quite  understand  what  she  meant 
about  a  knife/'  she  ventured,  with  an  eager 
glance  at  her  son.  He  played  a  little  louder,  as 
if  he  did  not  hear. 

"I  s'pose  she  come  here,  walked  all  that  way 
from  Ware  Centre,  this  dreadful  night,  'cause  she 
thought  you  could  help  to  get  her  young  man 
out  of  prison." 

Jim  nodded  as  he  fiddled. 

"  But  I  can't  see  how  your  seein'  her  brother 
give  her  a  knife  could  do  any  good.  Of  course 
that  sweet,  pretty  girl  didn't  do  it  herself.  But 
you  didn't  see  her  brother  give  her  the  knife, 
Jim  ?" 

"Didn't  you  hear  me  say  I  didn't?"  replied 
Jim,  with  sudden  force.  "  Don't  let's  talk  any 
more  about  it,  mother.  It's  a  dreadful  piece  of 
work,  anyway.  I  don't  half  know  what  it  means 
myself.  That  poor  girl  is  'most  crazy  because 
that  fellow  is  in  prison.  That's  why  she  came  on 
this  wild-goose  chase  after  me.  You  can't  tell 
anything  by  what  she  says." 

"Wasn't  he  a  nice  kind  of  a  fellow  before  this 
happened,  Jim  ?" 

"No, he  was  a  scamp,"  said  Jim  Otis,  angrily. 
He  struck  into  the  "Fisher's  Hornpipe"  with 
fury,  regardless  of  the  girl  up-stairs. 

"  Land  sakes,  Jim,  don't  fiddle  quite  so  loud 
as  that — I'm  dreadful  afraid  she'll  hear,"  said  his 
mother.  "  I  shouldn't  thought  a  girl  that  looks 


MADELON  139 

as  sweet  as  she  does  would  ever  have  taken  up 
with  a  scamp." 

"The  sweetest  girls  are  the  worst  fools/'  an 
swered  Jim,  bitterly,  but  he  obeyed  his  mother 
and  played  less  loudly.  The  shadows  of  the 
winter  night  might  have  footed  it  to  the  soft 
measures  of  the  hornpipe  which  Jim  Otis  played 
on  his  fiddle.  His  mother  could  scarcely  hear  it 
in  the  pantry  when  she  went  in  there  to  set  away 
the  supper  dishes.  She  shut  the  door  every 
time,  lest  her  son  should  feel  the  icy  air  from  the 
fireless  closet.  She  had  always  a  belief  that  Jim 
was  delicate,  and  took  a  certain  pride  in  it,  al 
though  she  could  not  have  told  why. 

Everything  that  was  in  the  least  likely  to  freeze 
to  its  injury  had  to  be  removed  from  the  cold 
pantry  and  set  on  the  hearth  that  bitter  night. 
It  was  quite  a  while  before  her  soft,  heavy  pat 
tering,  which  jarred  the  house  when  she  stepped 
on  certain  parts  of  the  floor,  ceased,  and  she 
took  her  knitting-work  and  sat  down  in  her  rock 
ing-chair  opposite  her  son. 

Jim  continued  to  fiddle,  touching  the  strings 
as  if  his  fingers  were  muffled  with  down.  The 
wind  whistled  more  loudly  than  his  fiddle ;  it 
had  increased,  and  the  cold  with  it.  Some  of  Mrs. 
Otis's  crocks  froze  on  the  hearth  that  night.  No 
such  cold  had  been  known  in  Vermont  for  years. 
The  frost  on  the  window-panes  thickened — the 
light  of  the  full  moon  could  not  penetrate  them  ; 


140  MADELON 

all  over  the  house  were  heard  sounds  like  those 
on  a  straining  ship  at  sea.  The  old  timbers 
cracked  now  and  then  with  a  report  like  a 
pistol.  "It's  a  dreadful  night,"  said  Mrs.  Otis, 
and  as  she  spoke  the  returning  wind  struck  the 
house,,  and  she  gasped  as  if  it  had  in  truth  taken 
her  breath  away. 

A  few  minutes  before  nine  o'clock  Mrs.  Otis 
put  away  her  knitting  -  work  and  got  the  great 
Bible  off  the  desk.  "Stop  fiddling  now,  Jim/' 
she  said,  solemnly.  Mrs.  Otis  spoke  with  more 
direct  authority  in  religious  matters  than  in 
others.  She  felt  herself  well  backed  by  the 
spiritual  law.  Jim  finished  the  tune  he  was 
playing  and  lowered  his  fiddle  from  his  shoulder. 
His  mother  found  the  place  in  the  Bible,  and  the 
holy  words  were  on  her  tongue  when  there  was 
a  sharp  clash  of  sleigh-bells  close  under  the 
window. 

"Somebody's  drove  into  the  yard  !"  cried  Mrs. 
Otis.  "Who  do  you  s'pose  'tis  this  time  of  night  ?" 

"Hullo  !"  shouted  a  man's  voice,  hoarsely,  and 
Jim  shouted  "Hullo  !"  in  response,  and  started 
towards  the  door. 

"Ask  who's  there  before  you  open  the  door," 
said  the  mother,  anxiously.  She  stood  listening 
a  moment  after  Jim  had  gone ;  then  she  caught 
her  shawl  from  a  peg,  put  it  over  her  head,  and 
followed  him  —  she  was  so  afraid  some  harm 
would  come  to  her  son. 


MADELON  141 

The  outer  door  was  open,  and  before  it  was 
drawn  up  a  sleigh  and  a  great,  high-shouldered, 
snorting  and  pawing  horse.  In  the  sleigh  was  a 
man  muffled  in  furs  like  an  Eskimo,  leaning  out 
and  questioning  Jim. 

"  When  did  she  come  ?"  asked  the  man. 

"  About  five  o'clock,"  answered  Jim. 

Then  Mrs.  Otis  understood  that  they  were 
talking  about  the  girl  in  her  spare-chamber,  and 
she  interposed,  standing  in  the  doorway.  "  She 
was  just  about  tuckered  out,  what  with  the  cold 
and  that  awful  tramp,"  said  she.  "She  most 
ought  to  have  rode  over."  Mrs.  Otis's  voice  was 
soft  and  conciliatory. 

"We  didn't  know  she  was  coming,"  replied 
the  man  in  the  sleigh,  courteously,  (( or  we  should 
not  have  let  her  walk  so  far  on  such  a  day." 

"Be  you  her  brother  ?"  questioned  Mrs.  Otis. 

"Yes.     Fm  her  brother  Eugene," 

"  And  you  drove  over  to  see  where  she  was  ?" 

"Yes;  we've  been  very  anxious." 

"Well,  you  can  be  easy  about  her  for  to-night," 
said  Mrs.  Otis.  "  She's  tucked  up  nice  and  warm 
in  my  spare  -  chamber  bed,  and  I  give  her  a 
tumbler  of  my  brandy  cordial,  and  I  guess  she's 
sound  asleep." 

"  He  wants  to  take  her  home  to-night,  mother," 
said  Jim,  and  there  was  a  curious  appeal  in  his 
tone. 

Mrs.  Otis,  standing  there  on  the  door-step  in 


142  MADELOX 

the  freezing  moonlight,  turned  quickly  upon  the 
man  in  the  sleigh,  and  all  the  soft  conciliation 
was  gone  from  her  voice.  "You  ain't  plannin' 
to  take  that  girl  way  home  to  Ware  Centre  to 
night  ?"  said  she. 

"Father  sent  me  for  her,"  replied  Eugene 
Hautville. 

"Well,  she  ain't  goin'  a  step  \" 

"Her  father  will  expect  me  to  bring  her/'  said 
Eugene,  with  his  unfailing  courtesy.  "He  has 
been  very  anxious.  I  had  hard  work  to  find 
where  she  was.  My  father  won't  be  satisfied  if  I 
come  home  without  her." 

"That  girl  ain't  going  out  of  this  house  to 
night  !" 

"  I've  got  a  bearskin  here  to  wrap  her  up  in. 
She  is  used  to  being  out  in  all  weathers,"  per 
sisted  Eugene,  gently. 

"  She  can't  go.  Pull  her  out  of  a  warm  bed 
such  a  night  as  this !  If  you  try  to  take  that 
poor  child  out  to-night  I'll  stand  in  my  spare- 
chamber  door,  and  you'll  have  to  walk  over  me 
to  do  it — and  my  son  won't  see  his  mother  hurt, 
I  guess !" 

Jim  Otis  stepped  closer  to  the  sleigh  and 
spoke  to  Eugene  Hautville  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Well,"  said  Eugene,  slowly,  "  maybe  you're 
right,  Otis.  I  don't  know  what  father  will  say, 
but  if  she  was  as  used  up  as  you  tell  for,  I  don't 
know  as  'tis  safe.  It  is  an  awful  night." 


MADELON  143 

"  I  guess  it  ain't  safe,  and  she  ain't  going/' 
maintained  Mrs.  Otis  from  the  door-step. 

Then  Eugene  Hautville  bent  well  out  of  his 
sleigh  and  asked  a  question  in  the  other  man's 
ear. 

"Yes,  she  did/'  replied  Jim  Otis. 

"  The  poor  girl  is  crazy  over  it/'  said  Eugene. 
He  and  Jim  talked  for  a  few  moments,  but  Mrs. 
Otis,  straining  her  ears  on  the  door-step,  could 
not  hear. 

Suddenly  Jim  said,  quite  distinctly,  ' '  She 
wanted  to  know  if  I  saw  him  give  her  the  knife." 

There  was  a  pause ;  then  Eugene  Hautville 
asked,  in  a  voice  with  which  he  might  have  ad 
dressed  a  judge  of  his  life  and  death,  "Did 
you  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Jim  Otis. 


CHAPTER    XII 

THE  next  morning  there  took  place  in  a  few 
hours  a  great  change  in  the  temperature.  It 
moderated  rapidly.  The  frost  on  the  windows 
and  the  ice-ridges  in  the  roads  did  not  soften 
yet,  since  the  sun  was  overcast  by  heavy  clouds, 
but  the  terrible  rigor  and  tension  of  the  cold  was 
relaxed,  and  men  could  breathe  without  con 
straint.  At  eight  o'clock,  when  Jim  Otis  and 
Madelon  started  for  Ware  Centre,  there  was  a 
white  film  of  fallen  snow  over  the  distant  hills 
and  scattering  flakes  drove  in  advance  of  the 
storm. 

A  mile  out  of  Kingston  it  snowed  hard. 
"  Hadn't  you  better  have  that  extra  shawl 
mother  put  in  over  your  shoulders  ?"  Jim  Otis 
suggested. 

But  Madelon  shook  her  head.  "The  snow 
won't  hurt  me,"  she  said.  She  sat  up  straight 
in  the  sleigh,  and  there  was  a  look  in  her  eyes, 
fixed  ahead  on  the  white  drive  of  the  storm,  as 
if  her  spirit  were  out-speeding  her  body.  She 
had  her  strength  again  that  morning.  She  had 
slept  and  eaten.  She  had  submitted  to  the  exi- 


MADELON  145 

gencies  of  life  that  she  might  gain  power  to  re 
sist  them  again. 

Jim  Otis  drove  a  stout  little  mare  with  a  good 
wind  for  speed,  but  she  had  not  the  stride  of 
David  Hautville's  great  roan.  Moreover,  after 
the  first  stretch,  she  slacked  on  the  hills  and  fell 
into  walks  in  the  lonely  reaches,  almost  as  if  she 
had  learned  it  in  a  lesson.  Many  a  pretty  girl, 
flushing  sweetly  under  Jim  Otis's  gay  smile,  and 
perhaps  under  his  caressing  arm,  had  ridden  be 
hind  that  little  canny  mare,  who  learned  well 
the  meaning  of  the  careless  rein  along  the  wood 
land  roads. 

However,  to-day  there  was  no  careless  rein. 
At  the  first  slack  Madelon  herself  had  reached 
the  whip  and  touched  the  gently  ambling  neck. 
"  She  has  more  speed  in  her  than  this,"  said  she, 
shortly. 

"  She  hasn't  been  driven  for  two  days,  either," 
asserted  Jim  Otis.  "Wake  up,  Molly!"  He 
took  the  whip  himself  and  flourished  it  with  a 
quick  little  snap  over  her  back.  In  truth,  Jim 
Otis  was  as  anxious  to  be  at  this  journey's  end  as 
Madelon,  for  he  feared  every  minute  lest  she 
should  ask  him  again  if  he  had  seen  her  take  the 
knife,  and  that  he  would  again  have  to  oppose 
falsehood  to  her  frantic  pleading.  But  Madelon 
had  believed  him.  She  did  not  beg  him  again 
for  his  evidence.  She  sat  still  at  his  side  with  a 
strained  look  in  her  black  eyes,  and  they  rode  in 
10 


146  MADELOK 

silence,  with  the  storm  heaping  its  white  flakes 
on  their  shoulders,  until  they  reached  Ware 
Centre. 

Then  Madelon  turned  quickly  to  Jim  Otis. 
"Don't  drive  to  my  home/'  said  she  ;  "I  would 
rather  not  go  home  yet.  Drive  to  Burr  Gordon's 
house,  please.  I  want  to  see  his  mother.  Don't 
turn — keep  straight  on." 

"Yes,  I  know  where  he  lives,"  said  Jim,  so 
berly.  He  drove  very  slowly.  They  were  draw 
ing  near  the  turn  in  the  road.  "  See  here,"  he 
said,  suddenly,  "don't  you  think  you'd  better 
go  home  now  ?"  He  spoke  with  nothing  of  the 
half-gay,  half-caressing  authority  with  which  he 
was  wont  to  turn  a  pretty  girl  to  his  mind,  but 
timidly  rather,  and  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
mare's  nodding  head,  hooded  with  snow. 

"No,  I  must  see  Burr's  mother,"  replied 
Madelon. 

(i  But  your  folks  will  be  expecting  you,  won't 
they  ?"  persisted  Jim  Otis.  He  felt  that  he  had 
a  duty  of  loyalty  towards  this  desperate  girl's 
father  and  brothers  as  well  as  to  herself.  He 
had  promised  Eugene  Hautville  to  bring  her 
home  this  morning,  and  who  could  tell  where 
she  might  wander  and  when  she  might  return  if 
he  left  her  now  ? 

He  still  did  not  look  at  Madelon  as  he  spoke, 
but  he  felt  her  turn  and  fasten  her  eyes  upon 
his  face,  and  somehow  they  compelled  his.  He 


MADELOJs"  147 

raised  them  and  saw  her  beautiful  face  full  of  a 
scorn  of  passion  which  he  might  die  and  never 
know  in  himself. 

"What  do  you  think  that  is  to  me,"  said  she, 
"when  Fve  got  to  save  his  life  ?  If  you  do  not 
wish  to  carry  me  farther,  go  back.  I  will  walk." 

"  I  will  take  you  wherever  you  wish,"  returned 
Jim  Otis,  and  touched  up  the  mare,  and  neither 
spoke  again  until  they  reached  Burr  Gordon's 
house,  high  on  its  three  terraces,  with  Lot  Gor 
don's  opposite.  Then  Jim  halted  his  mare  in 
the  road  before  it,  and  would  have  alighted  to 
assist  Madelon,  but  she  sprang  out  before  him. 
tf  I  am  much  obliged  to  you  and  your  mother 
for  what  you  have  done  for  me/'  said  she,  and 
turned  with  a  swing  of  her  red  cloak,  and  was 
skimming  up  the  terraces  like  a  red- winged 
bird. 

As  for  Jim  Otis,  he  slewed  his  sleigh  about 
recklessly,  and  shook  the  whip  over  the  little 
mare,  and  drove  up  the  road.  When  he  reached 
the  turn  which  he  knew  led  to  the  Hautville 
house  he  drew  rein,  and  sat  pondering  in  his 
sleigh  for  a  few  minutes.  He  was  in  doubt 
whether  he  should  inform  Eugene  Hautville  of 
his  sister's  whereabouts  or  not.  Finally  he 
spoke  to  the  mare,  and  continued  on  his  way  to 
Kingston. 

The  terraces  which  Madelon  mounted  were  all 
covered  with  the  gathering  snow.  When  she 


148  MADELON 

reached  the  last  the  door  was  opened,  and  Burr 
Gordon's  mother,  Elvira,  stood  there.  "  I  am 
sorry  there's  so  much  snow  for  you  to  wade 
through/'  said  she,  in  a  sweet,  quiet  voice. 

"  I  don't  mind  it,  thank  you,"  replied  Made- 
Ion,  harshly.  She  felt  incensed  with  this  mother 
of  Burr's,  who  came  to  the  door  and  greeted  her 
as  if  she  were  an  ordinary  caller,  and  her  son 
were  not  in  prison. 

"You  had  better  shake  it  off  your  skirts  or 
you'll  take  cold,"  said  Mrs.  Gordon. 

"I  am  not  afraid,"  returned  Madelon.  She 
gave  her  skirts  a  careless  flirt  and  entered  the 
door  with  the  snow  still  clinging  to  her. 

"If  you  will  wait  a  moment,"  said  Mrs.  Gor 
don,  "  I  will  get  a  broom  and  brush  the  snow 
from  you  before  it  melts.  Then  you  won't  take 
cold." 

"I  don't  care  to  have  you,  thank  you,"  said 
Madelon.  Mrs.  Gordon  said  no  more,  but  led 
the  way  to  the  sitting-room.  She  was  a  tall, 
slender  woman  with  the  face  of  a  saint,  long  and 
pale,  and  full  of  gentle  melancholy,  with  large, 
meek-lidded  blue  eyes  and  patiently  compressed 
lips.  She  had  a  habit  of  folding  her  long  hands 
always  before  her,  whether  she  walked  or  sat,  and 
she  moved  with  sinuous  wavings  of  her  widow- 
bombazine. 

The  room  into  which  she  ushered  Madelon 
was  accounted  the  grandest  sitting-room  in  the 


MADELOX  149 

village.  "When  Burr's  father  had  built  his  fine 
new  house  he  had  made  the  furnishings  cor 
respond.  He  had  eschewed  the  spindle-legged 
tahles  and  fiddle -backed  chairs  of  the  former 
generations,  and  taken  to  solid  masses  of  red 
mahogany,  which  were  impressive  to  the  village 
folk.  The  carpet  was  a  tapestry  of  great  crim 
son  roses  with  the  like  of  which  no  other  floor 
in  town  was  covered,  and,  moreover,  there  was  a 
glossy  black  stove  instead  of  a  hearth  fire. 

"  Please  be  seated,"  said  Mrs.  Gordon.  She 
indicated  the  best  chair  in  the  room.  When  her 
guest  had  taken  it,  she  sat  down  herself  in  the 
middle  of  her  great  haircloth  sofa,  and  folded 
her  long  hands  in  her  lap.  Mrs.  Gordon  had 
the  extremest  manners  of  the  old  New  England 
gentlewoman — so  punctiliously  polite  that  they 
called  attention  to  themselves.  She  had  married 
late  in  life,  having  been  previously  a  preceptress 
in  a  young  ladies'  school.  She  was  still  the  ex 
ample  of  her  own  precepts — all  outward  decorum 
if  not  inward  composure. 

Madelon  Hautville,  opposite  her,  in  her  snow- 
powdered  cloak,  with  her  face  like  a  flash  of 
white  fire  in  her  snow  -  powdered  silk  hood, 
seemed  in  comparison  a  female  of  another  and 
an  older  race.  She  might  well,  from  the  look 
of  her,  have  come  a  nearer  and  straighter  road 
from  the  inmost  heart  of  things,  from  the  un- 
pruned  tangle  of  woods  and  undammed  course 


150  MADELON 

of  streams,  from  all  primitive  and  untempered 
love  and  passion  and  religion,  than  this  gentle 
woman  formed  upon  the  models  of  creeds  and 
scholars. 

Madelon  looked  at  the  other  woman  a  second 
with  fierce  questioning.  Then  she  sprang  up  out 
of  the  chair  where  she  had  been  placed,  and  stood 
before  her  on  her  sofa,  and  cried  out,  abruptly, 
"  I  have  come  to  tell  you  about  your  son.  He 
is  not  guilty.  I,  myself,  stabbed  Lot  Gordon  I" 

"Please  be  seated,"  said  Elvira  Gordon,  and 
her  folded  hands  in  her  lap  never  stirred. 

"Seated!"  cried  Madelon,  "seated!  How 
can  you  be  seated,  how  can  you  rest  a  moment — 
you,  his  mother  ?  Why  do  you  not  set  out  to 
New  Salem  now — now  ?  Why  do  you  not  walk 
there,  every  step,  in  the  snow  ?  Why  do  you 
not  crawl  there  on  your  hands  and  knees,  if  your 
feet  fail  you,  and  plead  with  him  to  confess  that 
I  speak  the  truth,  and  tell  them  to  set  him  free  ?" 

"  I  beg  of  you  not  to  so  agitate  yourself,"  said 
Elvira  Gordon.  "  You  will  be  ill.  Pray  be 
seated." 

Madelon  bent  towards  her  with  a  sudden 
motion,  as  if  she  would  seize  her  by  the  shoul 
ders. 

"Are you  his  mother,"  she  cried — "  his  mother 
— and  sit  here,  like  this,  and  speak  like  this  ? 
Why  do  you  not  move  ?  Why  do  you  not  start 
this  instant  for  New  Salem — this  instant  ?" 


MADELOK  151 

"  I  beg  you  to  calm  yourself/'  replied  Elvira 
Gordon.  "I  have  been  to  New  Salem  to  visit 
my  son.  I  have  prayed  with  him  in  his  prison/' 

"Prayed  with  him  !  Don't  you  know  that  he 
is  innocent,  and  in  prison  for  murder — your  own 
son  ?  You  stop  to  pray  with  him ;  why  don't 
you  act  to  save  him  ?" 

"You  will  make  yourself  ill,  my  dear." 

"Don't  you  believe  that  your  son  is  innocent  ?" 
demanded  Madelon.  "Don't  you  believe  it  ?" 

Her  eyes  blazed ;  she  clinched  her  hands.  She 
felt  as  if  she  could  spring  at  this  other  woman 
with  her  gentle  murmurings  and  soft  foldings/ 
and  shake  her  into  her  own  meaning  of  life.  If 
her  impulse  had  had  the  power  of  deed,  Elvira 
Gordon's  little  cap  of  fine  needle-work  would 
have  been  a  fiercely  crumpled  rag  upon  her  dec 
orous  head,  her  sober  bands  of  gray  hair  would 
have  streamed  like  the  locks  of  a  fury,  the  quiet 
clasp  of  her  long  fingers  would  have  been  stirred 
with  some  response  of  indignant  defence  if  noth 
ing  else.  Madelon,  with  her,  realized  that  worst 
balk  in  the  world — the  balk  of  a  passive  nature 
in  the  path  of  an  active  one — and  all  her  fiery 
zeal  seemed  to  flow  back  into  herself  and  fairly 
madden  her. 

"I  hope,"  said  Elvira  Gordon,  "that  my  son 
will  be  proved  innocent  and  set  free." 

' '  Proved  innocent !  Don't  you  know  your 
own  son  is  innocent  ?" 


152  MADELON 

"I  pray  without  ceasing  that  he  may  be  ac- 
quitted  of  the  crime  for  which  he  is  impris 
oned,"  replied  Elvira  Gordon,  over  her  folded 
hands. 

Madelon  looked  at  her.  "You  are  a  good 
woman/' said  she,  with  fierce  scorn.  "You  are 
a  member  of  Parson  Fair's  church,  and  you  keep 
to  the  commandments  and  all  the  creed.  You 
are  a  good  woman,  and  you  believe  in  the  eternal 
wrath  of  God  and  the  guilt  of  your  own  son. 
You  believe  in  that,  in  spite  of  what  I  tell  you. 
But  I  tell  you  again  that  I,  and  not  your  son, 
am  guilty,  and  I  will  save  him  yet !" 

Madelon  Hautville  gathered  her  red  cloak 
about  her,  and  Mrs.  Gordon  arose  as  she  would 
have  done  when  any  caller  was  about  to  take 
leave.  It  would  scarcely  have  seemed  out  of 
keeping  with  her  manner  had  she  politely  invited 
Madelon  to  call  again.  However,  her  quiet  voice 
was  somewhat  unsteady  and  hoarse  when  she 
spoke  to  Madelon  on  the  threshold  of  the  outer 
door,  although  the  words  were  still  gently  formal. 
"I  am  grateful  to  you  for  the  interest  you  take 
in  my  son,"  she  said ;  "I  hope  you  will  not  excite 
yourself  so  much  that  you  will  be  ill." 

"I  will  die  if  that  can  save  him,"  answered 
Madelon  Hautville,  and  went  down  the  snowy 
steps  over  the  terraces. 

Elvira  Gordon,  when  she  had  closed  the  door, 
drew  the  bolt  softly.  Truth  was,  she  thought 


MADELON  153 

the  girl  had  gone  mad  through  grief  and  love  for 
her  son.  Believing,  as  she  did,  that  the  love 
was  all  unsought  and  unreturned,  and  heing  also 
shocked  in  all  her  delicate  decorum  by  such  un- 
maidenly  violence  and  self -betrayal,  she  regarded 
Madelon  with  a  strange  mixture  of  scorn  and 
sympathy  and  fear. 

Moreover,  not  one  word  did  she  believe  of 
Madelon's  assertion  that  she  herself  was  guilty. 
"  She  is  accusing  herself  to  save  my  son/'  thought 
Elvira  Gordon,  and  her  heart  seemed  to  leap 
after  the  girl  with  half-shamed  gratitude,  in  spite 
of  her  astonishment  and  terror,  as  she  watched 
her  go  out  of  the  yard  and  across  the  road  to 
Lot  Gordon's  house.  Mrs.  Gordon  stood  at  one 
of  the  narrow  lights  beside  her  front  door  and 
watched  until  Madelon  entered  the  opposite 
house ;  then  she  went  hastily  through  her  fine 
sitting-room  to  her  own  bedroom,  and  there 
went  down  on  her  knees,  and  all  her  icy  con 
straint  melted  into  a  very  passion  of  weeping  and 
prayer.  Those  placidly  folded  hands  of  hers 
clutched  at  the  poor  mother-bosom  in  the  fury 
of  her  grief ;  those  placid-lidded  eyes  welled  over 
with  scalding  tears ;  that  calmly  set  mouth  was 
convulsed  like  a  wailing  child's,  and  all  the 
rigorous  lines  of  her  whole  body  were  relaxed 
into  overborne  curves  of  agony.  "  Oh,  my  son,  my 
son,  my  son!"  lamented  Elvira  Gordon.  "Have 
mercy,  have  mercy,  0  Father  in  heaven !  Let 


154  MADELOX 

him  be  proved  innocent !  Let  Lot  Gordon  live  ! 
Oh,  my  son  I" 

Elvira  Gordon  had  the  stern  pride  of  justice 
of  a  Brutus.  She  would  not  without  proof  dis 
cover  even  to  the  passionate  pleading  of  her  own 
heart  that  she  believed  her  son  innocent,  but  be- 
.lieve  it  she  did.  Every  breath  she  drew  was  a 
prayer  that  Lot  Gordon  might  yet  speak  and 
clear  Burr.  This  morning  she  had  some  slight 
hope  that  that  might  come  to  pass,  for  the  sick 
man  had  passed  a  comfortable  night  except  for 
his  old  enemy,  the  cough. 

"It's  my  belief,"  Margaret  Bean  had  told 
Elvira,  when  she  had  sped  across  the  road  in  the 
early  morning  to  inquire,  "that  it's  his  old 
trouble  that's  going  to  kill  him  when  he  does 
die  instead  of  anything  else." 

"Has  he  spoken  yet?"  asked  Elvira,  eagerly. 

"  No,  he  ain't ;  but  there's  none  so  still  as  them 
that  won't  speak."  Margaret  Bean  nodded 
shrewdly  at  Elvira.  Her  voice  was  weak  and 
hoarse  as  if  from  a  cold  or  much  calling,  but 
there  was  sharp  emphasis  in  it.  She  gave  a 
curious  impression  of  spirit  subdued  and  tearful 
ly  rasped,  like  her  face,  yet  never  lacking. 

"You — think  he — could  ?"  whispered  Elvira 
Gordon. 

"'Tain't  for  me  to  say,"  replied  Margaret 
Bean.  "  He  lays  there — looks  most  as  if  he  was 
dead."  She  wiped  her  eyes  hard,  with  a  hand- 


MADELON"  155 

kerchief  so  stiff  that  it  looked  on  that  cold  morn 
ing  frozen  as  with  old  tears.  Margaret  Bean  was 
famous  for  her  fine  starching  in  the  village ;  it 
was  her  chief  domestic  talent,  and  she  was  faith 
ful  in  its  application  in  all  possible  directions. 

"  I  wish  he  would  speak  if  he  could/'  said  Mrs. 
Gordon. 

"  I  do,  if  it's  for  the  best,"  returned  Margaret 
Bean.  She  hesitated;  there  were  red  rings 
around  her  tearful  eyes,  like  a  bird's.  "I  can't 
believe  your  son  did  it,  nohow,  Mis'  Gordon," 
said  she. 

"  I  hope  if  my  son  is  innocent  he  will  be 
proved  so,"  returned  Elvira  Gordon.  She  was 
too  proudly  just  herself  not  to  use  the  word  if, 
and  yet  she  could  have  slain  the  other  woman 
for  the  sly  doubt  and  pity  in  her  tone. 

"  It's  harder  for  you  than  'tis  for  him,  layin' 
there,"  said  Margaret  Bean,  nodding  towards  the 
house.  There  was  an  odd  gratulation  of  pity  in 
her  tone.  She  rubbed  her  eyes  again. 

"  We  all  have  our  own  burdens,"  replied  El 
vira,  with  a  dignified  motion,  as  if  she  straight 
ened  herself  under  hers.  "  I  hope  he  will  be 
able  to  speak — soon." 

"I  hope  so,  if  it's  for  the  best,"  said  Margaret 
Bean. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

ELVIRA  GORDON  had  gone  home  hoping  that 
Lot  might  yet  speak.  She  had  heard  his  rattling 
cough  as  she  picked  her  way  out  of  the  icy  yard, 
and  Madelon  also  heard  it  when  she  entered  it. 
She  knocked  at  the  side  door,,  and  Margaret 
Bean  opened  it.  She  had  a  gruel  cup  in  her 
hand. 

"I  want  to  see  him.,"  said  Madelon. 

Margaret  Bean  looked  at  her.  Her  starched 
calico  apron  flared  out  widely  over  her  lank 
knees  across  the  doorway. 

"Fm  afraid  he  ain't  able  to  see  nobody  this 
morning,"  said  she,  and  the  asperity  in  her  tone 
was  less  veiled  than  usual.  Her  voice  was  not 
so  hoarse.  She  was  mindful  of  this  girl's  former 
conduct  at  her  master's  beside,  and  herself  half 
believed  her  mad  or  guilty.  A  suspicious  im 
agination  had  Margaret  Bean,  and  Madelon  would 
have  found  in  her  a  much  readier  belief  than  in 
others. 

"Fve  got  to  see  him,  whether  he's  able  or 
not,"  said  Madelon. 

"The  doctor  said—" 


MADELON  157 

"  I'm  going  to  see  him  I" 

Madelon  pushed  roughly  in  past  the  smooth 
apron  and  ran  through  the  entry  to  Lot's  room, 
with  the  housekeeper  staring  after  her  in  a  help 
less  ruffle  of  indignation. 

"  She's  gone  in  there/'  she  told  her  husband, 
who  appeared  in  the  kitchen  door,  dish-towel  in 
hand.  Margaret  Bean's  husband  always  washed 
the  dishes  and  performed  all  the  irresponsible 
domestic  duties  of  the  establishment.  He  was 
commonly  adjudged  not  as  smart  as  his  wife, 
and  little  store  was  set  by  his  counsels.  Indeed, 
at  times  the  only  dignity  of  his  man's  estate 
which  seemed  left  to  this  obediently  pottering 
old  body  was  the  masculine  pronoun  which  nec 
essarily  expressed  him  still.  However,  even 
in  that  the  undisturbed  use  was  not  allowed. 
"Margaret  Bean's  husband  "was  usually  sub 
stituted  for  "He,"  and  nothing  left  of  him  but 
the  superior  feminine  element  feebly  qualified 
by  masculinity. 

Margaret  Bean's  husband's  name  was  Zenas,but 
scarcely  anybody  knew  it,  and  he  had  almost  for 
gotten  it  himself  through  never  being  addressed 
by  it.  Margaret  herself  spoke  of  her  husband  as 
"  Him,"  but  she  never  called  him  anything,  ex 
cept  sometimes  "You."  However,  he  always 
knew  when  she  meant  him,  and  there  was  no 
need  of  specification. 

Now  he  half  thought  she  was  appealing  to  his 


158  ,    MADELON 

masculine  authority  from  her  bewildered  air. 
He  stiffened  his  meek  old  back.  "  Want  me  to 
go  in  there  and  order  her  out  ?" 

"  You!  Go  back  in  there  and  finish  them 
dishes/' 

Margaret  Bean's  husband  went  back  into  the 
kitchen,  and  Margaret  followed  Madelon  with  a 
sly,  determined  air,  to  Lot's  room. 

The  great  square  northwest  room  was  warm, 
but  the  frost  had  not  yet  melted  from  the  win 
dow-panes.  The  room  looked  full  of  hard  white 
lines  of  frost,  and  starched  curtains,  and  high 
wainscoting ;  but  the  hardest  white  lines  of  all 
were  in  Lot  Gordon's  face,  sunken  sharply  in  his 
pillows,  showing  between  the  stiff  dimity  slants 
of  his  bed -hangings  as  in  a  tent  door.  He 
looked  already  like  a  dead  man,  except  for  his 
eyes.  It  seemed  as  if  the  life  in  them  could 
never  die  when  they  saw  Madelon.  She  bent 
over  him,  darkening  the  light. 

"  Speak  now  !"  said  she. 

Lot  Gordon  looked  up  at  her. 

"  I  tell  you,  speak  !  I  will  not  bear  this  any 
longer.  I  am  at  the  end." 

Still  Lot  Gordon  looked  up  at  her  silently. 

Then  Madelon  made  a  quick  motion  in  the 
folds  of  her  skirt,  and  there  was  the  long  gleam 
of  a  hunting-knife  above  the  man  in  the  bed. 
Margaret  Bean,  standing  by  the  door,  shrieked 
faintly,  but  she  did  not  stir.' 


MADELON  159 

"I  have  tried  everything,"  said  Madelon. 
"  This  is  the  last.  Speak,  or  I  will  make  your 
speaking  of  no  avail.  I  will  strike  again,  and  this 
time  they  shall  find  me  beside  you  and  not  Burr. 
My  new  guilt  shall  prove  my  old,  and  they  will 
hang  me  and  not  him.  Speak,  or,  before  God,  I 
will  strike  !" 

Then  Lot  Gordon  spoke.  "I  love  you,  Mad 
elon,"  said  he. 

"Say  what  I  bid  you,  Lot  Gordon  ;  not  that." 

"All  your  bidding  is  in  that." 

"Will  you?" 

"I  will  clear— Burr." 

Madelon  slipped  her  knife  away,  and  stood 
back.  Margaret  Bean  slunk  farther  around  past 
the  bedpost.  Neither  of  them  could  see  her. 

"  On  one  condition,"  said  Lot  Gordon. 

"What?" 

"That  you  marry  me." 

Madelon  gasped.     "  You  ?" 

Lot  laughed  faintly,  stretching  his  ghastly 
mouth.  "You  think  it  is  an  offer  of  wedlock 
from  a  churchyard  knight,"  he  said. 

"What  are  you  talking  about,  Lot  Gordon  ?" 

"Marry  me!" 

"  Marry  you  ?  I  am  going  to  prison  to-day 
for  stabbing  you.  If  you  die,  I  die  for  your 
murder.  Marriage  between  us  ?  You  are  mad, 
Lot  Gordon." 

Lot  Gordon  opened  his  mouth  to  speak,  but 


160  MADELON 

he  coughed  instead.  He  half  raised  himself 
feebly,  and  his  cough  shook  the  bed.  Madelon 
waited  until  he  lay  back,  gasping. 

"You  are  mad  to  talk  so,"  she  said  again, 
but  her  voice  was  softer. 

"No  madder — than — my  ancestors  made  me," 
Lot  stammered,  feebly.  Great  drops  of  sweat 
stood  on  his  forehead. 

Madelon  stood  looking  at  him.  He  lay  still, 
breathing  hard,  for  a  little ;  then  he  spoke 
again.  "Say  you  will  marry  me,  and  I  will 
clear  him,"  he  said,  "or  else — strike  as  you  will. 
But  all  will  believe  that  Burr  struck  the  first 
blow  and  you  the  second  for  love  of  him,  and 
though  he  be  not  hung,  the  mark  of  the  noose 
will  be  round  his  neck  in  folks'  fancies  so  long 
as  he  draws  the  breath  of  life." 

"  I  will  marry  you,"  said  Madelon. 

"Don't  cheat  yourself,"  Lot  went  on,  in  his 
disjointed  sentences,  broken  with  the  rise  of  the 
cough  in  his  throat.  "  This  wound  may  not  be 
—  mortal  —  after  all,  and  a  man  lives  —  long, 
sometimes,  when  he/s  sore  put  to  it  for  breath. 
The  spark  of  life  dies  hard,  and  you  may  fan  it 
into  a  blaze  again.  All  the  doctor's  nostrums 
may  not  stir  my  poor  dying  flesh — but  give  the 
spirit  —  what  it  craves  —  and  'tis  sometimes — 
strong  enough — to  gallop  the  flesh  where  it  will. 
Lord,  Fve  seen  a  tree  blossom  in  the  fall,  when 
'twas  warm  enough.  It  may  be  a  long  life  we'll 


MADELON  161 

— live  together,  Madelon.  Don't — cheat — your 
self  into — thinking  you'll  be  my  widow,  instead 
of — my  wife.  My  wife  you  may  be,  and — the 
mother  of  my  children." 

Madelon  moved  towards  him  with  a  curious, 
pushing  motion,  as  if  she  thrust  out  of  her  way 
her  own  will.  She  bent  over  him  her  white 
face,  holding  her  body  aloof.  "I  will  marry 
you,  come  what  will.  Now,  set  him  free." 

Great  tears  stood  in  Lot's  eyes.  "Oh,"  he 
whispered,  "you  think  only  of  him.  I  love  you 
better  than  he  does,  Madelon." 

"  Set  him  free,"  said  she,  in  a  hard  voice. 

Lot  heaved  a  great  sigh,  and  rolled  his  eyes 
feebly  about  towards  the  door. 

"Find — Margaret  Bean,"  he  began  ;  and  with 
that  Margaret  Bean,  who  had  kept  the  door  ajar, 
slid  out  softly,  "and  tell  her — to  send  her  hus 
band  to  —  Parson  Fair,  and — Jonas  Hapgood, 
and  she — must  go  the  other  way  for — the  doctor. 
Tell  them  to  come  at  once." 

With  that  Lot  fell  to  coughing  again,  but 
Madelon  went  out  quickly,  and  found  Margaret 
Bean  in  the  kitchen  mixing  gruel. 

"Mr.  Gordon  wishes  your  husband  to  go  at 
once  for  Parson  Fair  and  Jonas  Hapgood,  and 
you  for  the  doctor,"  said  she. 

"  Is  he   took  worse  ?"  asked  Margaret  Bean, 
innocently,    with    a    quick    sniff    of    apprehen 
sion. 
11 


162  MADELON 

"  No,  he  is  no  worse,  but  he  wishes  to  see 
them.  He  said  to  go  at  once." 

Margaret  Bean  cast  an  injured  eye  at  the 
window,  all  blurred  with  the  clinging  shreds  of 
the  storm.  "I  don't  see  how  I  can  get  out  in 
this  awful  storm  nohow,"  she  said.  "I've  got 
rheumatism  now.  Why  can't  he  go  to  see  'em 
all,  I'd  like  to  know  ?" 

"  The  doctor  lives  a  quarter  of  a  mile  the  other 
way.  It  will  save  time/' 

Margaret  Bean  looked  at  the  gruel.  "I've 
got  to  make  this  gruel  for  him." 

"  I  will  make  it.     Get  your  shawl,  quick." 

"  It  ain't  b'iled." 

"I  tell  you  I  will  make  it," 

"  Why  can't  he  go  to  both  places  ?" 

"I  will  go  myself!"  Madelon  cried,  suddenly. 
She  had  been  bewildered,  or  that  would  have 
occurred  to  her  before.  She  had  never  been 
one  to  send  where  she  could  go,  but  for  the  time 
Lot  Gordon's  will  had  overcome  hers.  "Tell 
your  husband  to  go  to  the  parson's  and  the 
sheriff's,  quick,  and  I  will  go  for  the  doctor," 
said  she,  and  was  flashing  out  of  the  yard  in  her 
red  cloak  before  Margaret  Bean  had  time  to 
turn  herself  about  from  the  prospect  of  her  own 
going.  Then  she  ordered  her  husband  imperi 
ously  into  his  boots  and  great-coat  and  tippet, 
and  sent  him  forth. 

She  finished  the  gruel,  and  took  it  in  to  the 


MADELON  103 

sick  man,  and  fed  him  with  hard  thrusts  of  the 
spoon.  Lot  looked  about  feebly  for  Madelon, 
and  Margaret  Bean  replied  to  the  look,  in  her 
husky  voice,  "  She's  gone,  instead  of  me.  Fve 
pfot  rheumatism  too  bad  to  venture  out  in  such  a 

o 

storm  and  get  my  petticoats  bedraggled/'  She 
spoke  with  a  little  whine  of  defiant  crying,  but 
Lot  took  no  notice.  He  was  exhausted.  After 
he  had  eaten  the  gruel,  he  pointed  to  the  chim 
ney-cupboard. 

"  What  is  it  ye  want  ?"  said  she. 

Lot  pointed. 

( '  How  do  I  know  what  ye  want  when  ye  jest 
p'int  like  that  ?" 

But  there  came  then  a  look  into  Lot  Gordon's 
eyes  as  expressive  as  a  word,  and  Margaret  Bean 
crossed  over  to  the  chimney-cupboard,  and  got 
out  the  brandy-flask  and  a  wine-glass  and  some 
loaf-sugar.  She  mixed  a  little  dose  of  the 
brandy  and  sugar,  and  would  have  fed  it  to  the 
siek  man  as  she  had  the  gruel,  but  he  motioned 
her  aside,  raised  himself  with  an  effort,  and 
drank  it  down  eagerly.  Then  he  lay  still,  and 
soon  a  faint  flush  came  into  his  face.  Margaret 
Bean  went  back  into  the  kitchen  and  mixed 
some  bread,  with  her  eye  upon  the  window. 

Presently  there  was  a  wild  gallop  and  great 
clash  of  bells  past  the  window,  and  a  shout  at 
the  door.  Margaret  Bean  put  on  her  little  blue 
shawl  and  opened  it  when  the  shout  had  been 


164  MADELON 

twice  repeated.  Old  David  Hautville  sat  there 
in  his  sleigh,  keeping  a  tight  rein  on  his  tugging 
roan.  "  My  daughter  here  ?"  he  shouted.  "Whoa, 
there  \" 

"  There's  sick  folks  here/'  said  Margaret  Bean, 
shivering  in  the  doorway.  "You  hadn't  ought 
to  holler  so."  Her  tearful  eyes  were  more  frank 
ly  hostile  than  usual.  She  had  always  looked 
down  from  her  own  slight  eminence  of  life  upon 
these  Hautvilles,  and  now  was  full  of  scorn  that 
her  master  was  to  marry  one  of  them. 

"  I  want  to  know  if  my  daughter  is  here," 
said  David  Hautville,  and  he  did  not  lower  his 
voice.  It  sounded  like  a  hoarse  bellow  of  wrath, 
coming  out  of  the  white  whirl  of  snow.  His  fur 
coat  was  all  crusted  with  snow,  his  great  mus 
tache  heavy  with  it ;  the  roan  plunged  in  a  ris 
ing  cloud  of  it. 

"  No,  she  ain't  here,"  replied  Margaret  Bean, 
and  her  weak  voice  seemed  by  its  very  antithesis 
to  express  the  utmost  scorn  and  disgust  at  the 
brutality  of  the  other. 

"  Has  she  been  here  ?" 

"Yes,  she's  been  here."  Margaret  made  as 
though  to  shut  the  door,  but  David  Hautville 
stopped  her. 

"  Did  she  start  for  home  ?" 

"You'd  better  ask  somebody  that  knows  more 
about  it." 

"Where  did  she  go?" 


MADELON  165 

"You'd  better  ask  somebody  that  knows  about 
it !"  repeated  Margaret  Bean,  in  her  malicious 
meekness.  Then  she  shut  the  door. 

David  Hautville,  with  a  great  "whoa  !"  leaped 
out  of  the  sleigh.  He  led  up  the  roan  with  a 
fierce  pull  to  the  fence,  and  tied  her  there. 
Then  he  strode  into  the  house,  and  through  the 
entry  to  Lot's  room,  with  no  ceremony. 

"  Where  is  my  daughter  ?"  he  demanded, 
standing  at  Lot's  bedside  in  his  great  fur  coat,  all 
bristling  with  points  of  snow. 

"She'll  be  back  presently/'  answered  Lot. 
His  voice  was  a  little  stronger ;  there  were  two 
red  spots  on  his  cheeks. 

"Where's  she  gone  ?" 

"For  the  doctor." 

All  at  once  David  Hautville  gave  a  great  start. 
"Why,  you're  talking!"  he  cried  out.  "You 
'couldn't  speak." 

Lot  nodded  vaguely. 

"  You're  better,  then  ?"  cried  the  other,  with  a 
sharp  look  at  him. 

Lot  nodded  again. 

"When  did  she  come  here  ?" 

"Just  now." 

"Same  damned  nonsense,  I  suppose.  She's 
gone  mad.  If  the  law  don't  finish  that  fellow,  I 
will!" 

Lot  motioned  towards  a  chair.  "  Sit  down," 
he  whispered. 


1G6  MADELOX 

"  She  coming  back  with  the  doctor?" 

"Yes,"  Lot  coughed. 

David  Hautville  settled  into  a  chair  with  a 
surly  grunt.  He  watched  Lot  cough,  holding  to 
his  straining  chest,  and  thought  that  he  must  be 
worse,  else  he  would  not  have  sent  for  the  doc 
tor.  He  resolved  to  wait  and  take  his  daughter 
home  with  him,  by  force  if  necessary,  but  with 
no  more  disturbance  of  this  man,  who  might  be 
sick  unto  death.  Seeing  Lot  cast  his  eyes  about 
as  if  looking  for  something,  and  make  a  motion 
towards  the  table  at  his  side,  he  rose  up  quickly 
and  got  him  a  spoonful  of  the  cough  mixture  in 
a  bottle  thereon,  and  administered  it  to  him 
gently. 

"  Don't  you  touch  my  wet  coat,"  said  David 
Hautville,  "  or  yo'll  get  a  chill,"  and  he  held  him 
self  carefully  away  from  the  sick  man. 

When  Lot  lay  back,  panting,  he  returned  to 
his  chair  and  did  not  speak  again.  The  two  re 
mained  in  silence  until  there  came  the  jingle  of 
bells,  the  tramp  of  horses'  feet,  and  the.  voice  of 
men  out  in  the  yard. 

Lot  lay  still,  with  his  eyes  closed.  David  Haut 
ville  raised  his  head  and  looked  at  the  window, 
thick  with  frost.  Presently  the  door  was  opened 
softly,  and  the  doctor  came  in,  with  Parson  Fair 
and  Jonas  Hapgood.  Madelon,  in  her  snow-pow 
dered  red  cloak,  came  last.  David  started  up 
fiercely  when  he  saw  her ;  then  he  stood  back 


MADELON  167 

and  waited.  The  doctor  bent  over  Lot  and  be 
gan  counting  his  pulse.  He  eyed  him  sharply. 

"  The  pendulum  still  swings/'  said  Lot. 

The  doctor  started.  "  You  can  speak,  then!" 
he  cried  out,  brusquely. 

Lot  smiled. 

Th.e  doctor  was  old,  and  his  long  struggle  with 
birth  and  death  had  begun  to  tell  upon  him.  He 
had  already  visited  Lot  that  morning,  after  a  hard 
night  with  a  patient,  back  in  the  hills.  His  face 
was  haggard  under  its  sharp  gray  bristle  of  beard; 
his  eyes  fierce,  like  an  old  dog's,  with  fatigue  and 
hunger.  He  had  just  reached  home  and  sat  down 
to  his  breakfast  when  this  new  call  came.  He 
had  thought  Lot  was  dying  from  Madelon's  im 
perative  summons,  and  she  had  not  undeceived 
him.  She  was  growing  cunning  in  her  desperate 
efforts  to  save  Burr  Gordon. 

"  What  in  thunder  did  ye  send  for  me  again 
for  ?"  he  snapped.  This  old  country  doctor  was 
never  chary  of  plain  speaking,  and  his  brusque- 
ness  had  increased  his  popularity.  Many  of  his 
patients  were  simple  countrywomen,  who  had 
greater  belief  in  that  which  they  feared.  They 
repeated  his  half-savage  speeches  to  each  other, 
and  added,  "  He's  a  good  doctor,  if  he  does  speak 
out." 

Lot  only  smiled  that  covert  smile  of  his,  which 
seemed  to  imply  some  wisdom  of  humor  beyond 
the  ken  of  others.  "I  ought  to  be  dying,"  he 


1G8  MADELOX 

said,  with  grim  apology.  "  I  ought  not — to  have 
disturbed  you  all  for  a  less  reason  than  to  wit 
ness  my  final  exit,  but  I  want  you  to  witness 
something  else."  Lot  Gordon  spoke  quite  strong 
ly  and  connectedly. 

"  What  ?"  asked  the  doctor,  irritably. 

"I  want  to  make  a  statement,"  said  Lot  Gor 
don. 

There  was  a  pause.  Jonas  Hapgood,  with  his 
look  of  heavy  facetiousness,  slightly  tempered 
now  with  curiosity,  stood  lounging  into  his  great 
snowy  boots  at  the  foot  of  the  bed.  Parson  Fair, 
the  consolation  for  the  dying  which  he  had 
thought  to  administer  still  in  his  mind,  which 
could  not  swerve  easily,  his  slender  height  in  his 
black  surtout  inclined  towards  the  sick  man  with 
gentle  courtesy,  waited.  Margaret  Bean  peered 
around  the  bed-curtain.  Madelon  stood  near  the 
doctor,  her  face  white  as  if  she  were  dead,  and  a 
look  of  awful  listening  upon  it.  In  the  back 
ground  David  Hautville,  wrathful  and  wonder 
ing,  towered  over  them  all. 

"I  wish  to  declare  in  the  presence  of  these 
witnesses,"  said  Lot  Gordon,  "the  doctor  here 
testifying  that  I  am  in  my  right  mind  " — the  doc 
tor  gave  a  surly  grunt  of  assent — "that  it  is  my 
firm  belief  that  all  mortal  ills  come  to  man 
through  his  own  agency,  and  this  last  ill  of  mine 
is  no  exception.  I  declare  solemnly  before  you 
all  that  my  cousin  Burr  Gordon  is  not  guilty  of 


MADELON  109 

administering  this  wound  which  I  bear  in  my 
side." 

The  sheriff  started  forward.  "Who  did  do  it, 
then  ?"  he  cried  out. 

"I  myself," replied  Lot  Gordon. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THERE  was  a  gasp  of  astonishment  from  the 
company.  Jonas  Hapgood  began  to  speak,  but 
Madelon's  soprano  drowned  out  his  thick  bass. 

"How  dare  you,"  she  cried  out,  "swear  to 
that  lie  ?  Liar  !  You  are  a  liar,  Lot  Gordon  I" 

Then,  before  Lot  could  reply,  David  Hautville 
came  forward  with  a  mighty  plunge,  and  grasped 
his  daughter  by  the  arm,  and  forced  her  to  the 
door. 

"  Get  ye  out  of  this,"  growled  David  Hautville  ; 
but  Madelon  turned  her  face  back  in  the  door 
way  for  one  last  word.  "Don't  you  know,"  she 
shrieked  back  to  Lot  Gordon,  in  her  pitiless  de 
spair — <f  don't  you  know  that  I  would  rather  have 
seen  the  inside  of  my  prison-cell  to-night  and 
the  gallows  to-morrow  than  this,  Lot  Gordon  ?" 

"  Quit  your  talk  I"  shouted  David  Hautville  ; 
and  she  followed  his  fierce  leading  out  of  the 
house  into  the  yard. 

" Get  ye  into  this  sleigh,"  ordered  her  father; 
and  she  obeyed.  Suddenly  the  fire  of  passion 
and  revolt  seemed  to  die  out  in  her ;  it  was  like 
a  lull  in  a  spiritual  storm.  She  rode  home  with 


MADELOJT  171 

her  father,  and  neither  spoke.  David  Hautville 
now  considered  the  matter  as  past  any  words  of 
reasoning.  He  was  convinced  that  his  daughter  s 
fair  wits  were  shaken,  and  that  nothing  but  sum 
mary  dealing,  as  with  a  child,  could  avail  any 
thing.  When  they  reached  home  he  bade  her, 
with  a  kind  of  stern  forbearance,  to  get  into  the 
house  at  once  and  see  to  her  work  there,  and  she 
obeyed  again. 

All  that  day,  and  many  days  after  that,  poor 
Madelon  Hautville,  who  had  been  striving  like 
any  warrior  against  the  powers  and  principalities 
of  human  wills  and  passions,  and  had  grounded 
her  arms  after  a  victory  which  had  left  her 
wounded  almost  to  death,  carried  her  bleeding 
heart  and  walked  her  woman's  treadmill.  She 
scoured  faithfully  the  pewter  dishes  and  the  iron 
pots.  She  swept  the  hearth  clean  and  baked  and 
brewed  and  spun  and  sewed.  Her  lot  would 
have  been  easier  had  her  woe  befallen  her  genera 
tions  before,  and  she  could,  instead,  have  backed 
her  heavy  load  of  tenting  through  the  snow  on 
wild  hunting-parties,  and  broken  the  ice  on  the 
river  for  fish,  and  perchance  taken  a  hand  at  the 
defence  when  the  males  of  her  tribe  were  hard 
pressed.  Civilization  bowed  cruelly  this  girl, 
who  felt  in  greater  measure  than  the  gently  staid 
female  descendants  of  the  Puritan  stock  around 
her  the  fire  of  savage  or  primitive  passions ;  but 
she  now  submitted  to  it  with  the  taciturnity  of 


172  3IADELOX 

one  of  her  ancestresses  to  the  torture.  Week 
after  week  she  went  about  the  house,  and  neither 
spoke  nor  smiled.  Burr  Gordon  was  set  free, 
fully  acquitted  of  the  charge  against  him ;  Made- 
Ion's  denial  of  Lot's  false  confession  had  gone 
for  nothing.  Half  the  village  considered  her 
hysterical  and  irresponsible,  and  Lot  Gordon,  it 
was  agreed,  was  just  the  man  to  lay  violent  hands 
upon  his  own  life,  steal  and  use  his  cousin's 
knife,  and  keep  mute  to  fasten  the  guilt  upon 
him,  as  he  had  confessed. 

A  week  after  Burr's  release  Louis  and  Eichard 
Hautville  came  home.  They  had  been  trapping 
on  Green  Mountain,  they  said,  camping  in  the 
little  lodge  they  had  built  there.  When  they 
came  in  laden  with  stark  white  rabbits  and  limp- 
necked  birds,  and  one  of  them  with  a  haunch  of 
venison  on  his  back,  Madelon  faced  them  with 
sudden  fierceness,  as  if  to  speak.  Then  she 
turned  away  to  her  work,  without  a  word  of 
greeting.  The  boy  Richard  stared  at  her  with  a 
quiver,  as  of  coming  tears  on  his  handsome  face. 
He  whispered  to  Eugene,  when  she  went  into  the 
pantry. 

"Best  let  her  alone,"  said  Eugene.  "She's 
been  so  ever  since.'' 

Not  one  of  them  knew  of  her  promise  to  marry 
Lot  Gordon,  and  Lot  had  bound  Margaret  Bean 
over  to  secrecy.  All  the  village  was  as  yet  ig 
norant  of  that,  but  there  was  enough  besides  to 


MADELON"  173 

afford  a  choice  bone  of  gossip  to  folk  sunken  in 
the  monotony  and  isolation  of  a  Vermont  country 
winter.  The  women  put  their  heads  together 
over  it  at  their  quilting-bees,  and  the  men  in 
their  lounging-places  in  the  store  and  tavern. 
This  mystery,  which  endured  as  well  as  their 
hard-packed  snows,  and  kept  their  imaginations 
always  upon  the  stretch,  was  a  great  acquisition 
to  them.  Plenty  of  mental  activity  was  there  in 
Ware  Centre  that  winter,  and  the  brains  of  many 
were  smartly  at  work  upon  some  of  those  prob 
lems  whose  conditions,  being  all  unknown  quan 
tities  of  character  and  circumstance  and  fate, 
are  beyond  all  rules  of  solution. 

Would  Burr  Gordon  marry  Dorothy  Fair,  or 
would  he,  after  all,  turn  again  to  his  old  love, 
who  had  shown  such  devotion  to  him  that  it  had 
almost  turned  her  brain  ?  Unless,  indeed — for 
there  is  room  in  gossip  for  all  suspicion,  and  sur 
mise  can  never  be  quite  laid  at  rest — her  brain 
had  not  been  turned,  and  she  had  struck  the 
blow,  as  she  said.  But,  in  that  case,  why  had  Lot 
taken  her  guilt  upon  himself  ?  Why  had  he 
cleared  Burr  at  his  own  expense,  and  saved  her  ? 
If  he  had  done  it  for  love  of  Madelon,  he  had 
also  set  his  rival  free  to  woo  her,  and  had  estab 
lished  her  innocence  in  his  eyes. 

Lot  still  lived.  Would  he  die,  finally,  of  his 
wound  or  of  his  disease  ?  Would  he  recover  and 
come  out  of  his  house  alive  again  ?  Time  went 


174  MADELON" 

on,  and  the  people  knew  no  more  than  they  knew 
at  first ;  but  they  continued  to  watch,  crossing 
the  gleams  of  all  the  neighboring  window-panes 
with  sharp  lines  of  attention,  hushing  conver 
sation  in  the  store  if  a  Hautville  or  a  Gordon 
entered,  and  rolling  keen  eyes  over  shoulders 
after  meeting  one  of  them  upon  the  country 
roads.  But  especially  they  were  alert  in  the 
meeting-house  upon  Sabbath  days.  Their  eyes 
were  slyly  keen  upon  Dorothy  Fair,  softly  wrapped 
in  her  blue  wadded  silk  and  swan's-down,  hold 
ing  up  her  head  with  gentle  state  in  the  parson's 
pew ;  upon  Burr  Gordon,  somewhat  pale  and 
moody  in  his  smart  Sunday  coat ;  and  Madelon,  up 
in  the  singing-seats.  They  never,  in  those  days, 
saw  Madelon  elsewhere.  She  went  to  meeting 
every  Sabbath  day  and  sang  as  usual,  but  between 
the  hymns  she  sat  with  her  beautiful  face  as  irre 
sponsive  to  all  around  her  as  a  painted  portrait, 
and  more  so,  for  the  eyes  of  a  portrait  will  often 
seem  to  follow  an  ardent  gazer.  Madelon's  father 
and  brothers,  except  Richard  and  Louis,  who 
kept  their  own  counsel,  were  much  bewildered 
among  themselves  at  her  strange  mood,  and  were 
inclined  to  hold  the  opinion  that  her  wits  were  a 
little  shaken,  and,  moreover,  to  keep  it  quiet  and 
secret  from  everybody  until  she  should  be  quite 
restored.  They  said  little  to  her,  treating  her 
with  a  kind  of  forbearing  compassion ;  but  the 
indignation  of  them  all  was  fierce,  although  held 


MADELON  175 

well  in  check,  against  Burr  Gordon.  Him  they 
held  accountable  for  all. 

Burr  Gordon  might  well  have  been  quit  of  any 
charge  of  cowardice  had  he  shrunk  from  facing 
the  male  Hautvilles  on  those  days.  They  passed 
him  in  the  road  with  the  looks  of  surly  dogs  in 
leash.  None  of  them  except  Eugene  gave  him 
a  nod  of  recognition.  Eugene  bowed  always, 
with  his  unfailing  grace  of  courtesy,  but  he  hated 
him  more  than  all  the  others,  for  he  was  jealous 
on  his  own  account  as  well  as  his  sister's.  It 
was  said  that  Burr  Gordon,  since  his  acquittal, 
was  courting  Dorothy  Fair  steadily,  although 
they  had  not  been  seen  out  together. 

Burr  had  been  to  the  Hautville  house  twice 
since  his  return  from  New  Salem,  but  had  not 
been  admitted.  Once  when  he  called  Madelon 
had  been  alone  in  the  house,  and  caught  a  glimpse 
of  her  old  lover  coming  into  the  yard.  She  had 
sprung  up,  letting  her  needle-work  slide  to  the 
floor,  and  fled  with  her  face  as  white  as  death 
and  her  heart  beating  hard  into  the  freezing 
best  room,  and  stood  back  in  a  corner  out  of 
range  of  the  windows,  and  listened  to  the  taps 
of  the  knocker  and  finally  to  Burr's  retreating 
steps.  Then  she  crept  across  to  a  window  and 
peered  around  the  curtain,  and  watched  him  out 
of  sight  as  if  her  soul  would  follow  him ;  then 
she  stole  out  the  door  and  looked  up  and  down  to 
see  if  anybody  was  in  sight ;  and  then  she  flung 


176  MADELOtf 

herself  down  upon  her  knees  and  kissed  her 
lover's  cold  footprint  in  the  snow. 

The  second  time  Burr  came  was  on  an  even 
ing,  when  her  father  and  all  her  brothers  except 
Richard  were  at  the  singing-school.  She  knew 
Burr's  step  when  he  drew  near  the  door,  and  bade 
Richard  shortly  to  answer  the  knock,  and  say 
she  was  busy  and  could  see  nobody,  which  he 
did  with  all  the  emphasis  which  his  fiery  young 
blood  could  put  into  words  of  dismissal.  The 
boy,  of  all  the  others,  alone  knew  a  reason  why 
he  should  be  more  lenient  with  Burr ;  and  yet 
this  very  reason  seemed  to  swell  his  wrath  and 
hold  him  more  deeply  responsible  for  a  deeper 
disgrace.  When  he  had  shut  the  door  hard 
upon  Burr,  he  turned  to  his  sister.  "I  would 
have  killed  him  rather  than  let  him  in,"  said  he. 

Madelon  took  another  stitch  in  her  work.  Her 
face  looked  as  if  it  were  carved  in  marble.  Rich 
ard  stood  staring  at  her  a  second  ;  then  he  flung 
out  of  the  room,  and  the  doors  closing  behind 
him  shook  the  house.  Richard's  manner  towards 
his  sister  was  sometimes  full  of  a  fierce  sympathy 
and  partisanship,  sometimes  of  wild  anger  and 
aversion.  He  looked  ten  years  older  in  a  few 
weeks.  Both  he  and  Louis  appeared  to  avoid 
the  other  members  of  the  family,  and  kept  much 
together,  and  yet  even  in  their  close  compan 
ionship  they  also  seemed  to  have  a  curious 
avoidance  of  each  other;  one  was  seldom  seen 


MADELON  177 

to  look  in  his  brother's  face,  or  address  him 
directly. 

One  morning,  a  month  after  Burr's  release, 
Margaret  Bean  came  to  the  Hautville  door.  She 
was  well  wrapped  against  the  cold,  her  head 
especially  being  swathed  about  with  lengths 
of  knitted  scarf  over  her  silk  hood  ;  there  was 
only  a  thin  sharp  gleam  of  face  out  of  it,  like 
a  very  lance  of  intelligence.  Margaret  held  out 
the  stiff  white  corner  of  a  letter  from  the  folds 
of  her  shawl.  "  He  sent  it,"  she  said  to  Madelon, 
who  came  to  the  door. 

Madelon  opened  the  letter  and  read  it.  "I  can't 
come/'  she  said,  shortly.  "  I'm  busy.  Tell  him 
he  must  write  what  he  wants  to  tell  me." 

Margaret  Bean's  eyes  were  sharp  as  steel  points. 
She  had  not  known  what  was  in  the  letter. 
"  Hey  ?"  said  she,  pretending  that  she  had  not 
heard,  in  order  to  make  Madelon  repeat  and  per 
haps  reveal  more. 

"  I  can't  come,"  said  Madelon.  "  Jle  can  write 
what  he  wants  to  tell  me." 

Suddenly  a  great  red  flush  spread  over  her  pale 
face  and  her  neck.  She  lowered  her  eyes  before 
the  other  woman  as  if  in  utter  degradation  of 
shame,  and  shrank  back  into  the  house  and 
closed  the  door  in  Margaret  Bean's  face. 

Margaret  Bean  stood  for  a  moment,  a  silent, 
shapeless  figure  in  the  cold  air.  "  Pretty  actions, 

I  call  it,"  said  she  then,  quite  loudly,  and  went 
12 


178  MADELON 

out  of  the  yard  with  a  curious  tilting  motion  on 
slender  ankles,  as  of  a  balancing  bale  of  wool. 

Madelon  slipped  her  letter  into  her  pocket  as 
she  entered  the  kitchen.  Her  father  and  all  her 
brothers  were  there.  It  was  shortly  after  break 
fast,  and  they  had  not  yet  gone  out. 

"  Who  was  it  at  the  door  ?"  her  father  asked. 
He  sat  by  the  fire  in  his  great  boots. 

"  Margaret  Bean." 

"What  did  she  want  ?" 

"  Lot  Gordon  sent  for  me  to  come  over  there." 

"  What  for  ?" 

"  He  wanted — to — tell  me  something." 

"  You  ain't  going  a  step.    I  can  tell  ye  that." 

"I — told  her  I  couldn't  go,"  said  Madelon. 
Her  voice  was  almost  breathless,  and  still  that 
red  of  shame  was  over  her  face.  She  bent  her 
head  and  turned  her  back  to  them  all,  and  went 
out  of  the  room.  The  male  Hautvilles  looked  at 
one  another.  "  What's  come  over  the  girl  now?" 
said  Abner,  in  his  surly  bass  growl. 

"She's  a  woman,"  said  his  father,  and  he 
stamped  his  booted  feet  on  the  floor  with  a  great 
clamp. 

Madelon  meantime  fled  up-stairs  to  her  cham 
ber,  with  her  first  love-letter  from  Lot  Gordon  in 
her  pocket.  Until  this  the  reality  of  all  that 
had  happened  had  not  fully  come  home  to  her. 
Without  acknowledging  it  to  herself  she  had  en 
tertained  a  half-hope  that  Lot  might  not  have 


MADELON  179 

been  entirely  in  earnest — that  he  might  not  hold 
her  to  her  promise.  And  then  there  had  been 
the  uncertainty  as  to  his  recovery.  But  here  was 
this  letter,  in  which  Lot  Gordon  called  her — her, 
Madelon  Hautville — his  sweetheart,  and  begged 
her  to  come  to  him,  as  he  had  something  of  im 
portance  to  say  to  her  !  He  used,  moreover, 
terms  of  endearment  which  thrilled  her  with  the 
stinging  shame  of  lashes  upon  her  bare  shoulders 
at  the  public  whipping-post.  She  lit  the  candle 
on  her  table,  snatched  the  letter  out  of  her  pock 
et,  crumpled  it  fiercely  as  if  it  were  some  live 
thing  that  she  would  crush  the  life  out  of,  and 
then  held  it  to  the  candle-flame  until  it  burned 
away,  and  the  last  flashes  of  it  scorched  her  fin 
gers.  Then  she  caught  a  sight  of  her  own  mis 
erable,  shamed  face  in  her  looking-glass,  and 
flushed  redder  and  struck  herself  in  her  face  an 
grily,  and  then  fell  to  walking  up  and  down  her 
little  room. 

Her  father  and  brothers  down  below  heard  her, 
and  looked  at  each  other. 

"There  was  that  Emmeline  Littlefield  that 
went  mad,  and  fell  to  walking  all  the  time,"  said 
Abner. 

The  others  listened  to  the  footsteps  overhead 
with  a  gloomy  assent  of  silence. 

"  They  had  to  keep  her  in  a  room  with  an  iron 
grate  on  the  window,"  said  Abner,  further,  with 
a  pale  scowl. 


180  MADELON 

Then  David  Hautville  took  down  his  leather 
jacket  from  its  peg  with  a  jerk,  and  thrust  his 
arm  into  it.  "  I  tell  ye,  she's  a  woman"  he  said, 
in  a  shout,  as  if  to  drown  out  those  hurrying 
steps ;  and  then  he  went  out  of  the  room  and  the 
heuse,  and  disappeared  with  axe  on  shoulder 
across  the  snowy  reach  of  fields  ;  and  presently 
all  his  sons  except  Eugene  followed  him.  Eugene 
remained  to  keep  watch  over  his  sister. 


CHAPTER   XV 

AFTER  his  father  and  brothers  were  gone,  Eu 
gene  got  Louis's  fiddle  out  of  the  chimney-cup 
board  and  fell  to  playing  with  an  imperfect  touch, 
picking  out  a  tune  slowly,  with  halts  between  the 
strains,  as  if  he  spelled  a  word  with  stammering 
syllables.  Eugene's  musical  expression  was  in 
his  throat  alone ;  his  fingers  were  almost  power 
less  to  bring  out  the  meaning  of  sweet  sounds. 
A  drunken  crew  on  a  rolling  vessel  might  have 
danced  to  the  tune  that  Eugene  Hautville  fin 
gered  on  his  brother's  fiddle  that  morning  while 
his  sister  walked  back  and  forth  overhead,  run 
ning  the  gantlet,  as  it  were,  of  an  agony  which 
his  masculine  imagination  could  not  compass, 
well  tutored  as  it  was  by  the  lessons  of  his 
Shakespeare  book. 

When  Margaret  Bean  came  to  the  door  the 
second  time  she  heard  the  squeak  of  the  fiddle, 
and  clanged  the  knocker  loud  to  overcome  it. 
Madelon  and  Eugene  reached  the  door  at  the 
same  time,  and  Margaret  Bean  extended  another 
letter.  "  Here's  another,"  said  she,  shortly,  to 
Madelon.  She  tucked  the  hand  which  had  held 


182  MADELON 

the  letter  under  her  shawl  and  hugged  herself 
with  a  shiver,  ostentatiously.  "  I'm  most  froze, 
traipsin'  back  and  forth,  I  know  that  much/'  she 
muttered. 

Eugene  stood  aside  with  a  nourish  and  a 
graceful,  beckoning  wave  of  his  hand.  "Won't 
you  come  in  and  warm  yourself  ?"  he  said,  and 
he  smiled  in  her  face  as  if  she  and  no  other  were 
the  love  of  his  heart. 

But  Margaret  Bean  had  a  shrewd  understand 
ing  which  no  grace  of  flattery  could  dazzle,  and 
felt  truly  that  nowadays  her  principal  claim  to 
masculine  admiration  lay  in  her  fine  starching 
specialty  of  housewifery ;  and  of  that  she  gave 
no  show,  bundled  up  against  the  cold  in  her 
shapeless  wools.  So  she  put  aside  the  young 
man's  smiling  courtesy  scornfully,  as  not  belong 
ing  to  her,  and  spoke  in  a  voice  as  sharp  as  an 
edge  of  her  own  well  -  stiff  ened  linens.  "No, 
sir,"  said  Margaret  Bean  ;  "  I've  got  bread  in  the 
oven  and  I  can't  stop,  and  I  ain't  coming  in  for 
two  or  three  minutes  and  set  with  my  things  on, 
and  get  all  chilled  through  when  I  go  out.  I'll 
stand  here  while  your  sister  reads  that  letter.  Ho 
said  the  answer  would  be  just  'yes'  or  'no,'  and 
I  shouldn't  have  to  wait  long.  '  She  ain't  one  to 
teeter  long  on  a  decision,'  says  he ;  '  she  finds 
her  footin'  one  side  or  the  other.'  He  talks 
queer,  queerer 'n  ever  sence  he  was  hurt.  I  pity 
anybody  that  gets  him." 


MADELOX  183 

"  Tell  him  '  yes/  "  said  Madelon,  abruptly ;  and 
then  she  wheeled  about  and  went  into  the  house. 

"  Well,"  said  Margaret  Bean,  harshly.  The 
door  closed  before  her;  Eugene  had  forgotten 
his  courtesy,,  and  followed  his  sister  into  the 
house  without  a  good-day  to  the  guest. 

Margaret  Bean  stood  for  a  minute  looking  at 
the  house,,  with  its  yawn  of  blank  windows  in 
her  face ;  then  she  went  out  of  the  yard,  bearing 
her  message  to  Lot  Gordon. 

Eugene  Hautville  was  startled  at  the  look  on 
Madelon's  face  when  she  went  into  the  house. 
"  Madelon,  what  is  it  ?"  he  said,  softly.  But  she 
did  not  answer  him  a  word  ;  she  ran  across  the 
room  and  thrust  Lot  Gordon's  letter  into  the 
fire.  Eugene  followed  her  and  turned  her  about 
gently,  and  looked  keenly  in  her  white  face. 

"  What  was  in  that  letter  ?"  said  he. 

Madelon  shook  her  head  dumbly. 

"Madelon?" 

"Wait.  You  will  know  soon.  I  can't  tell  you/' 
she  gasped  out  then. 

"  Was  it  from  Lot  Gordon  ?" 

She  nodded. 

"  What  is  he  writing  to  you  about  ?  You  are 
my  sister,  and  I  have  a  right  to  know." 

"Wait,"  she  gasped  again.  "Oh,  Eugene, 
wait.  I — can't — " 

Suddenly  Madelon  hung  heavy  on  her  brother's 
arm.  "  Madelon,"  he  cried  out  loudly  to  her, 


184  MADELON 

as  if  she  were  deaf — "Madelon,  don't!  You 
needn't  tell  rne.  Madelon  !" 

Eugene  almost  lifted  his  sister  into  the  rock 
ing-chair  on  the  hearth,  and  hastened  to  get  her 
a  cup  of  water  ;  but  when  he  returned  with  it 
she  motioned  it  away,  and  was  sitting  up,  stern 
and  straight  and  white,  but  quite  conscious. 

"  Hadn't  you  better  drink  it,  Madelon  ?"  plead 
ed  Eugene. 

"No.  What  do  I  want  it  for?  I  am  quite 
well,"  said  she. 

"You  almost  fainted  away." 

"I  don't  want  it." 

Eugene  set  the  cup  on  the  dresser ;  then  he 
came  back  to  Madelon,  and  stood  over  her,  look 
ing  at  her,  his  dark  face  as  pitiful  as  a  woman's. 
"Madelon,  why  can't  you  tell  me  what  new 
thing  is  making  you  act  like  this  ?"  he  said. 
Madelon  made  an  impatient  motion  and  start 
ed  up,  and  would  have  gone  out  of  the  room, 
but  Eugene  flung  an  arm  around  her  and  held 
her  firmly.  "What  is  it,  poor  girl  ?"  he  whis 
pered  in  her  ear. 

Madelon  had  soft  woman's  blood  in  her  veins, 
after  all.  Suddenly  she  shook  convulsively,  and 
would  have  kept  her  face  firm,  but  she  could  not. 
She  put  her  head  on  her  brother's  shoulder,  and 
sobbed  and  wept  as  he  had  never  seen  her  do, 
even  when  she  was  a  child,  for  she  had  never 
been  one  to  cry  when  she  was  hurt.  Eugene  sat 


MADELON  185 

down  in  the  rocking-chair  with  his  sister  on  his 
knee,  and  smoothed  her  dark  hair  as  gently  as 
her  mother  might  have  done.  "  Poor  girl !  poor 
girl!"  he  kept  whispering;  but,  softly  caressing 
as  his  voice  was,  his  eyes,  staring  over  his  sister's 
head  at  the  fire,  got  a  fierce  and  fiercer  look  ;  for 
he  was  thinking  of  Burr  Gordon  and  cursing  him 
in  his  heart  for  all  this.  "Good  Lord,  Madelon, 
can't  you  put  that  fellow  out  of  your  head  ?"  he 
cried  out,  sharply,  all  at  once. 

Then  Madelon  hushed  her  sobs,  with  a  stern 
grip  of  her  will  upon  her  quivering  nerves,  and 
raised  herself  up  and  away  from  him.  "  That 
has  nothing  to  do  with  this,"  she  said,  coldly. 
"  Let  me  go  now,  Eugene." 

But  Eugene  held  her  strongly  with  a  hand 
on  either  arm,  and  scanned  her  keenly  with  his 
indignant  eyes.  "  He  is  at  the  root  of  the  whole 
matter,"  said  he,  "and  you  know  it.  I  wish — " 

"  I  tell  you  Burr  Gordon  has  nothing  to  do  with 
this  last.  He  knows  nothing  of  it.  Let  me  go, 
Eugene."' 

But  Eugene  still  held  her  and  looked  at  her. 
"  Madelon—" 

ee  What  ?  I  can  sit  here  no  longer.  I  have 
work  to  do.  There  is  nothing  the  matter  with 
me.  I  have  nothing  to  complain  of.  What  I  do 
I  do  of  my  own  free  will." 

"  Madelon,"  whispered  Eugene,  with  a  red 
flush  stealing  over  his  dark  face,  his  eyes  dropping 


186  MADELON 

a  little  before  her,,  "you  don't — think  she  will — 
marry  him  ?" 

"Who?     Dorothy?" 

Eugene  nodded. 

"Of  course  she  will  —  marry  him,,  Eugene 
Hautville." 

Eugene  set  his  sister  down  suddenly  and  got 
up.  "  All  Fve  got  to  say  is,  then,"  he  cried,  with 
a  movement  of  his  right  arm  like  a  blow,  "  it's  a 
damned  shame  that  the  child  can't  be  taken  care 
of  among  us  all." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Eugene  Hautville?" 

"  I  mean  that  she  had  better  lie  down  in  her 
grave  than  marry  that — " 

"  Take  care  what  you  say,  Eugene." 

"  I  say  she  had—" 

"  Better  lie  down  in  her  grave  than  marry  him 
— than  marry  Burr  Gordon  ?  What  do  you  mean  ? 
Who  are  you,  that  you  talk  in  this  way  ?  He  is 
better  than  you  all ;  not  one  of  you  is  fit  to  tie 
his  shoe." 

"  Madelon,  are  you  mad  ?  He  is  a  lying  villain, 
and  you  know  it,  and —  God  knows  it's  only  on 
her  account  I  speak.  Some  one  ought  to  tell  her. " 

"  Tell  her,  tell  her  !  What  do  you  think  I 
would  tell  her  if  I  were  to  speak  ?  If  she  were 
to  come  to  me  and  ask  me  if  Burr  ever  courted 
me  and  played  me  false  for  her,  I  would  tell 
her,  no,  no,  no  !  If  she  were  to  ask  me  if  Burr 
ever  kissed  me,  or  said  a  fond  word  to  me,  or  gave 


MADELON  187 

me  a  fond  look,  I  would  tell  her,  and  this  last  is 
the  truth,  that  he  never  gave  me  more  than  a 
passing  thought,  and  'twas  only  my  own  short 
sightedness  and  conceit  that  made  me  think  'twas 
more  than  that,  shame  to  me  !  Isn't  he  a  man, 
and  shouldn't  a  man  look  well  about  him  among 
us  to  be  sure  his  hearfc  is  set  ?  I'd  tell  her  'twas 
something  for  her  to  hold  up  her  head  for  among 
other  women  all  the  days  of  her  life,  because  he 
chose  her.  That's  what  I'd  tell  her." 

"  Madeloii !" 

"  Dorothy  Fair  shall  not  cheat  Burr  now,  when 
he  has  set  his  heart  upon  her.  It  would  be  worse 
than  all  that  has  gone  before.  I  tell  you  I  won't 
bear  that.  He  shall  have  her  if  he  wants  her. 
He  has  suffered  enough." 

"  But  you — you,"  gasped  Eugene.  "  I  thought 
you  —  I  thought  you  wanted  him  yourself, 
Madeloii." 

"  I've  gone  past  myself.  All  I  think  of  now  is 
what  he  wants,"  said  she,  shortly.  She  turned 
to  go  out  of  the  room  ;  then  she  stopped  and 
spoke  to  him  over  her  shoulder :  "  There's  no 
need  of  talking  any  more  about  it."  She  added  : 
"  I  know  what  I've  set  out  to  do,  and  I  can  go 
through  with  it."  Then  the  door  shut  after  her, 
and  Eugene  sat  down  with  his  Shakespeare  book. 
But  he  could  not  read ;  he  sat  moodily  puzzling 
over  his  sister,  whose  unfulfilled  drama  of  life 
held  his  mind  better  than  them  all. 


188  1CADBLON 

But  puzzle  as  lie  might,  he  never  once  dreamed 
of  the  truth — that  his  sister  Madelon  had  prom 
ised  to  marry  Lot  Gordon  in  a  month's  time, 
and  sent  her  "}^es"  by  word  of  mouth  of  Marga 
ret  Bean  that  morning.  Somehow,  even  with  the 
ashes  of  the  letter  of  proposal  before  his  eyes  on 
the  hearth,  and  his  sister's  "yes"  ringing  in  his 
ears,  knowing  as  he  did  that  Lot  as  well  as  Burr 
had  lost  his  heart  to  her,  he  could  not  conceive  of 
such  a  possibility.  He  was  too  well  acquainted  with 
Madelon's  attitude  towards  Lot,  and  she  had  never 
been  one  to  walk  whither  she  did  not  list  for  any 
man.  He  could  not  imagine  the  possibility,  well 
versed  as  he  was,  through  his  Shakespeare  lessons, 
in  the  feminine  heart,  of  his  sister's  yielding  her 
proud  maiden  will  to  any  man.  He  would  as  soon 
have  thought  of  a  wild-cat  which  he  had  trailed  in 
the  woods,  which  knew  him  as  his  mortal  enemy, 
whose  eyes  had  followed  him  with  stealthy  fury 
out  of  a  way-side  bush,  to  unbend  from  the  crouch 
of  its  spring  and  walk  purring  tamely  into  his 
house  at  call,  and  fall  to  lapping  milk  out  of  a 
saucer  on  the  hearth.  But  no  man  can  estimate 
the  possibilities  of  character  under  the  lever 
of  circumstances,  and  there  is  power  enough 
abroad  to  tame  the  savage  in  all  nature.  Madelon 
Hautville  had"  yielded  to  a  stress  of  which  her 
brother  knew  nothing,  and  he  therefore  scouted 
the  idea,  if  it  crossed  his  mind  like  a  wild  fancy, 
of  her  yielding  at  all.  He  rather  came  to  the 


MADELOX  189 

conclusion  that  the  letter  had  announced  Burr's 
engagement  to  Dorothy  Fair,  and  that  Madelon's 
"yes"  had  signified  proud  approval  of  it.  He 
leaned  to  this  conclusion  the  sooner  because  of 
the  miserable  tendency  which  a  jealous  heart 
has  to  force  all  suspicions  to  open  its  own  sore. 
"  He's  going  to  marry  Dorothy  Fair/'  Eugene 
told  himself.  "It  was  like  Lot  to  tell  Madelon, 
and  ask  her  if  she  was  pleased  with  it.  And  that 
was  why  she  acted  so.  Her  heart  broke  at  first 
and  she  cried,  and  then  she  stood  up  and  hid  it. 
He's  going  to  marry  Dorothy  Fair  !" 

Eugene  had  a  strong  imagination,  whereby  he 
could  suifer  a  thousandfold,  if  he  would,  every 
woe  of  his  life.  Sitting  now  by  his  hearth  fire, 
with  his  Shakespeare  book,  full  of  the  joys  and 
sorrows  of  immortal  lovers,  disregarded  upon  his 
knees,  he  let  his  fancy  show  him  many  a  picture 
which  tore  his  heart,  although  look  upon  it  he 
would.  He  saw  Dorothy  Fair  in  her  wedding- 
gown  ;  he  saw  her  blush  like  a  rose  through  her 
bridal  lace  ;  he  saw  her  following  Burr  up  the 
meeting-house  aisle  the  Sabbath  after  her  mar 
riage  with  a  soft  rustling  of  silken  finery,  and  a 
toss  of  white  bridal  plumes  over  her  fair  locks. 
He  saw  those  glances,  which  he  swore  to  himself 
boldly  enough  then  had  first  been  his,  turned 
upon  his  rival;  he  imagined  sweet  words  and 
caresses  which  he  had  never  tasted,  and  were  per 
chance  the  sweeter  for  that,  bestowed  upon  Burr. 


190  MADELOiT 

Suddenly  he  started  up  and  flung  down  his 
book  upon  the  settle,  and  put  on  his  fur  cap  and 
was  out  of  the  house.  "  The  first  turn  of  her 
heart  was  towards  me,  and  I  was  the  first  man 
she  coupled  with  love  in  her  thoughts,  and  noth 
ing  can  undo  it,"  he  said,  aloud,  fiercely  to  him 
self  as  he  went  up  the  lonely  snowy  road  ;  and 
he  believed  it  then.  Those  soft  blue  glances  of 
Dorothy's  came  back  to  him  so  vividly  that  he 
seemed  to  see  them  anew  whenever  his  eyes  fell 
upon  the  way-side  bushes,  or  the  cloud-shadowed 
slopes  of  white  fields,  or  the  dark  gaps  of  soli 
tude  between  the  forest  pines. 

For  the  first  time  a  fierce  insistence  of  his 
rights  of  love  was  upon  him.  Straight  to  the 
village  he  went,  and  to  Parson  Fair's  house. 
But  he  did  not  enter  ;  his  madness  was  not  great 
enough  for  that.  He  did  not  enter,  but  he  went 
past  with  a  bold,  searching  look  at  all  the  win 
dows  and  no  pretence  of  indifference,  and  up  the 
road  a  little  way.  Then  he  returned  and  passed 
the  house  again,  and  looked  again  ;  and  this  time 
Dorothy's  face  showed  between  the  dimity  sweeps 
of  her  chamber  curtains.  He  half  stopped,  and 
then  came  another  glance  of  blue  eyes  which 
verified  those  that  had  gone  before,  straight  into 
his,  which  replied  with  a  dark  flash  of  ardor, 
and  then  Dorothy's  face  went  red  all  of  a  sud 
den,  and  there  was  a  vanishing  curve  of  blush 
ing  cheek  and  a  flirt  aside  of  fair  curls,  and 


MADELON  191 

the  space  between  the  dimity  curtains  was 
clear. 

Eugene  stood  still  beneath  the  window  for  a 
few  minutes.  There  were  watchful  eyes  in  the 
neighboring  windows.  In  the  tavern-yard,,  far 
ther  down  the  street,  Dexter  Beers  and  old  Luke 
Basset  stood,  also  fixedly  staring  at  Parson  Fair's 
house. 

"  Wonder  if  he  thinks  there's  any  trouble — fire 
or  anything/'  said  Dexter  Beers. 

"Don't  see  no  smoke,"  said  old  Luke. 

Eugene  Hautville,  rapt  in  that  abstraction  of 
love  which  is  the  completest  in  the  world,  and 
makes  indeed  a  world  of  its  own  across  eternal 
spaces,  knew  nothing  and  thought  nothing  of 
outside  observers.  He  was  half  minded  for  a 
minute  to  enter  Parson  Fair's  house.  Had  Dor 
othy  appeared  outside,  the  impulse  to  seize  her 
and  bear  her  away  with  him  and  fight  for  her 
possession  against  all  odds,  like  any  male  of  his 
old  savage  tribe  when  love  stirred  his  veins, 
would  have  been  strong  within  him.  But  she  did 
not  come,  nor  appear  again  in  the  window.  She 
stood  well  around  the  curtain  and  peeped ;  but  he 
did  not  know  that,  and  presently  he  went  away. 

When  he  passed  the  tavern  Dexter  Beers  hailed 
him.  (f  Say,  any  thin'  wrong  to  the  parson's  ?" 

"No,"  returned  Eugene,  sharply,  and  strode  on. 

"Didn't  know  but  you  see  smoke,  you  were 
lookin'  up  at  the  house  so  stiddy,"  called  Beers, 


192  MADELON 

conciliatingly  ;  but  Eugene  swung  down  the  road 
without  another  look.  All  his  grace  of  manner 
was  forgot  in  the  stir  of  passion  within  him. 
What  had  Dorothy  Fair  meant  by  that  look  ? 
Was  she  betrothed  to  Burr  Gordon  ?  Was  she 
playing  with  him  for  her  own  amusement  ?  And 
what  was  he  to  do,  what  could  he  do,  for  the  sake 
of  his  love,  with  honor  ? 

Eugene  left  the  road  after  he  had  cleared  the 
village,  and  struck  off  across  the  fields  for  a  long 
tramp  through  snowy  solitudes  as  well  known 
to  him  as,  and  better  suited  to  him  for  perplexed 
thoughts  than,  any  place  in  his  home.  In  a  way, 
out-doors  was  the  truest  home  of  all  these  Haut- 
villes,  with  the  strain  of  wild  nomadic  blood  in 
their  veins. 

The  sight  of  the  little  fireless  dwellings  of 
woodland  things,  the  empty  nests  revealed  on 
the  naked  trees,  the  scattered  berries  on  leafless 
bushes,  the  winter  larders  of  birds,  the  tiny  track 
of  a  wild  hare  or  a  partridge  in  the  snow,  dis 
turbed  less  the  current  of  their  inmost  life,  as 
being  more  the  wonted  surroundings  of  their 
existence,  than  all  the  sounds  and  sights  and 
eavors  within  four  domestic  walls. 

Eugene  tramped  on  for  miles  over  paths  well 
known  to  him,  which  were  hidden  now  beneath 
the  snow,  pondering  upon  himself  and  Dorothy 
Fair,  and  never  gave  his  sister,  whose  guardian 
he  had  been,  another  thought. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

MADELCW,  half  an  hour  after  Eugene  had  left, 
put  on  her  cloak  and  hood,  and  went  down  the 
road  to  Lot  Gordon's.  "  I  want  to  see  him  a 
minute,"  she  said  to  Margaret  Bean  when  the 
woman  answered  her  knock,  and  went  in  with  no 
more  ado.  Her  face  was  white  and  stern  in  the 
shadow  of  her  hood. 

Margaret  Bean  recoiled  a  little  when  she  looked 
at  her.  "He's  up/'  said  she,  backing  before  her, 
half  as  if  she  were  afraid.  "  I  guess  you  can  walk 
right  in." 

Madelon  went  into  the  sitting-room,  and  Lot's 
face  confronted  her  at  once,  white  and  peaked, 
with  hollow  blue  eyes  lit,  as  of  old,  with  a  mock 
ing  intelligence  of  life. 

He  was  sunken  amid  multifold  wrappings  in  a 
great  chair  before  the  fire,  with  a  great  leathern- 
bound  book  on  his  knees.  Beside  him  was  a  lit 
tle  stand  with  writing-paper  thereon,  and  seal 
ing-wax  and  a  candle,  a  quill  pen  and  an  ink 
stand.  All  the  room  was  lined  with  books,  and 
was  full  of  the  musty  smell  of  them. 

Madelon  went  straight  up  to  Lot  and  spoke 

13 


194  MADELON" 

out  with  no  word  of  greeting.  "I  have  sent 
your  answer/'  said  she.  "  I  will  keep  my  promise, 
but  have  you  thought  well  of  what  you  do,  Lot 
Gordon  ?" 

Lot  looked  up  at  her  and  smiled,  and  the  smile 
gave  a  curiously  gentle  look  to  his  face,  in  spite 
of  the  sharp  light  in  his  eyes. 

"The  thought  has  been  my  meat  and  my 
drink,  my  medicine  and  my  breath  of  life,"  said 
he. 

"If  I  were  a  man  I  would  rather  —  take  a 
snake  to  my  breast  than  a  woman  who  held  me 
as  one — " 

"Two  parallel  lines  can  sooner  meet  than  a 
woman  know  the  heart  of  a  man.  What  do  I 
care  so  I  hold  you  to  mine  ?" 

Madelou  stood  farther  away  from  him,  but  her 
eyes  did  not  fall  before  his. 

"Why  did  you  lie  ?"  said  she.  "You  knew  I 
stabbed  you,  and  not  yourself.  You  are  a  liar, 
Lot  Gordon." 

But  Lot  still  smiled  as  he  answered  her. 
"  However  it  may  be  with  other  men,  no  happen 
ing  has  come  to  me  since  I  set  foot  upon  this 
earth  that  I  brought  not  upon  myself  by  my  own 
deeds.  The  hand  that  set  the  knife  in  my  side 
was  my  own,  and  I  have  not  lied." 

"You  have  lied.     Tell  them  the  truth." 

"I  have  told  the  truth  that  lies  at  the  bottom 
of  the  well." 


MADELON  195 

"Call  them  all  in  now,,  and  tell  them — I — did 
it,  I—" 

Lot  Gordon  raised  himself  a  little,  and  looked 
at  her  with  the  mocking  expression  gone  sud 
denly  from  his  face.  "What  good  do  you  think 
it  would  do  if  1  did,  Madelon  ?"  he  said,  with  a 
strange  sadness  in  his  voice. 

She  looked  at  him. 

"I  shall  not  die  of  the  wound.  You  can't 
escape  me  "by  prison  or  a  disgraceful  death,  and 
as  for  me,  do  you  think  it  would  make  any  dif 
ference  to  me  if  all  the  village  pointed  at  you, 
Madelon  ?" 

Madelon  looked  at  him  as  if.  she  were  frozen. 

"All  the  way  to  be  set  loose  from  your  promise 
is  by  your  own  breaking  it,"  said  Lot. 

"I  will  keep  my  promise,"  said  Madelon,  shut 
ting  her  lips  hard  upon  her  words.  She  turned 
away. 

"Madelon,"  said  Lot. 

She  went  towards  the  door  as  if  she  did  not 
hear. 

"Madelon." 

She  turned  her  white  face  slightly  towards  him 
and  paused. 

"  Won't  you  come  here  to  me  a  moment  ?" 

"I  cannot  until  I  am  driven  to  it  !"  she  cried 
out,  passion  leaping  into  her  voice  like  fire.  "  I 
cannot  go  near  you,  Lot  Gordon  !" 

She  opened  the  door,  and  then  she  heard  a  sob. 


196  MADELON 

She  hesitated  a  second,  then  looked  around ;  and 
Lot  Gordon's  thin  body  was  curled  about  in  his 
chair  and  quivering  with  sobs  like  any  child's. 

Madelon  closed  the  door,  and  went  back  and 
stood  over  him.  She  looked  at  him  with  a  cu 
rious  expression  of  pity  struggling  with  loath 
ing,  as  she  might  have  looked  at  some  wounded 
reptile. 

"  Well,  I  am  here,''  she  said,  in  a  harsh  voice. 

' '  All  my  life  my  heart  has  had  nothing,  and 
now  what  it  has  it  has  not,"  moaned  Lot,  as  if  it 
had  been  to  his  mother.  He  looked  up  at  her 
with  his  hollow  blue  eyes  swimming  in  tears.  Ho 
seemed  for  a  minute  like  a  little  ailing  boy  ap 
pealing  for  sympathy,  and  the  latent  motherhood 
in  the  girl  responded  to  that. 

"  You  know  I  cannot  help  that,  Lot,"  she  said. 
"You  know  how  you  forced  me  into  this  to  save 
the  one  I  do  love." 

"  Oh,  Madelon,  can't  you  love  me  ?" 

She  shrank  away  from  him  and  shook  her  head, 
but  still  her  dark  eyes  were  soft  upon  his  face. 

"  Does  not  love  for  you  count  anything  ?  1 
love  you  more  than  he — I  do,  Madelon." 

"It' is  no  use  talking,  I  can  never  love  you, 
Lot,"  she  said,  but  gently. 

"It  ought  to  count.  Love  ought  to  count, 
dear.  It  is  the  best  thing  in  the  world  we  have 
to  give.  And  I  have  given  it  to  you  ;  oh,  God, 
how  have  I  given  it  to  you,  Madelon  !" 


MADELON  197 

"Lot,  don't — it's  no  use." 

"Listen  —  you  must  listen,  dear.  You  must 
hear  it  once.  It  can't  turn  you  more  against  me. 
You  don't  know  how  I  have  loved  you — you  don't 
know.  Listen.  Never  a  morning  have  I  waked 
but  the  knowledge  of  you  came  before  the  con 
sciousness  of  myself.  Never  a  night  I  fell  asleep 
but  'twas  you,  you  I  lost  last,  and  not  myself. 
When  I  have  been  sick  the  sting  of  my  longing 
for  you  has  dulled  all  my  pain  of  body.  If  I  die 
I  see  not  how  that  can  die  with  me,  for  it  is  of 
my  soul.  I  see  not  why  I  must  not  bear  it  for 
ever." 

"Lot,  I  must  go!" 

"  Listen,  Madelon ;  you  must  listen.  When  I 
have  taken  my  solitary  walks  in  the  woods  and 
pried  into  the  secrets  of  the  little  wild  things 
that  live  there  in  order  to  turn  my  mind  from 
my  own  musing,  I  found  always,  always,  that  you 
were  in  them — I  cannot  tell  you  how,  but  you 
were,  Madelon.  There  was  a  meaning  of  you  in 
every  bird-call  and  flutter  of  wings  and  race  of 
wild  four-footed  things  across  the  open.  Every 
white  alder -bush  in  the  spring  raised  you  up 
anew  before  me  to  madden  me  with  vain  longing, 
and  every  red  sumach  in  the  fall.  When  I  have 
sat  here  alone  every  book  I  have  opened  has  had 
in  it  a  meaning  of  you  which  the  writer  knew  not 
of.  You  are  in  all  my  forethoughts  and  my 
memories  and  my  imaginations.  The  future  has 


198  MADELON 

your  face,  and  the  past.  My  whole  world  is  made 
up  of  you  and  my  vain  hunger.  Oh,  love,  and 
not  toil,  is  the  curse  of  man !" 

"  You  knew  about  Burr,*'  Madelon  said,  in  a 
quiet,  agitated  voice.  "  Why — did  you  ?" 

Lot  gave  a  sharp  cry,  as  if  he  had  been  wounded 
anew.  "Oh,"  he  cried,  "you  are  blind,  blind, 
blind — a  woman  is  born  blind  to  love  !  If  I  had 
had  the  face  and  the  body  of  him  it  would  have 
been  me  you  would  have  turned  to,  Madelon. 
Don't  you  know  ?  can't  you  see  ?  He  has  been 
false  to  you,  he  cares  no  more  for  you.  But  if  he 
had  ?  In  the  end  it  is  love  and  love  alone  that 
sweetens  life,  and  what  could  his  love  be  to 
mine  ?" 

Madelon  turned  away  again.  "I  can't  stand 
here  any  longer,  Lot,"  she  said,  and  moved  tow 
ards  the  door. 

But  Lot  called  her  piteously :  "  Madelon,  come 
back !  If  you  have  any  mercy,  come  back !" 

She  stood  irresolute,  frowning  ;  then  she  went 
back.  "  What  is  it  ?"  she  asked,  impatiently. 

"Madelon,  kiss  me  once." 

"  I  can't— I  can't !     Don't  ask  that  of  me,  Lot. " 

"Madelon,  once!" 

Madelon  bent  over  him,  keeping  her  body  stiff 
ly  aloof,  and  kissed  him  on  his  hollow  forehead. 
Lot  closed  his  eyes  and  smiled  like  a  contented 
child  ;  then  suddenly  he  opened  them  upon  Mad 
elon,  and  the  look  in  them  was  not  a  child's. 


MADELON  199 

She  shrank  away  with  a  strong  shudder,  flushing 
with  anger  and  shame,  and  made  resolutely  for 
the  door  again.  She  looked  back  and  spoke  out 
sharply  to  him,  with  her  hand  on  the  latch : 
"Mind  you  do  not  say  one  word  about — what  I 
said  I'd  do,  until  the  last."  Then  she  went  out, 
flinging  to  the  door  quickly  lest  she  hear  Lot's 
voice  again. 

When  she  got  home  there  was  no  one  there. 
Eugene  had  not  returned.  She  went  about  pre 
paring  dinner  as  usual ;  it  was  on  the  table  when 
the  men,  all  except  Eugene,  came  home,  and 
none  of  them  dreamed  she  had  left  the  house. 
They  inquired  where  Eugene  was,  and  she  re 
plied  that  she  did  not  know.  They  did  not  sus 
pect  that  she  had  taken  advantage  of  this  lack  of 
guardianship,  and  yet  there  was  something  un 
wonted  in  her  manner  which  led  them  to  look 
at  each  other  furtively  when  they  first  noticed 
it.  The  perfect  poise  of  decision  at  which  she 
had  arrived  affected  their  minds  in  some  subtle 
fashion.  Eugene,  when  he  returned  late  in  the 
afternoon,  noticed  the  change  in  her,  in  spite  of 
his  own  perturbation.  He  looked  hard  at  her 
staid  face,  fixed  into  a  sort  of  unquestioning 
and  dignified  acquiescence  with  misery,  but  he 
said  nothing.  Madelon,  in  this  state,  was  not  to 
be  questioned  even  by  her  father.  He  simply 
muttered  to  himself,  as  he  strode  out  of  the  room, 
that  she  was  a  woman. 


-200  MADELOX 

Madelon's  manner  was  the  same  as  the  days 
went  on.  There  ceased  to  be  any  question  as  to 
her  sanity  among  her  father  and  brothers.  She 
no  longer  paced  overhead  like  a  wild  thing.  She 
no  longer  made  fierce  outbreaks  of  despairing 
appeal.  They  no  longer  kept  watch  over  her 
lest  she  commit  some  folly,  and  became  easier  in 
their  minds  about  her. 

They  made  no  objections  when,  three  weeks 
later,  she  asked  for  the  sleigh  and  the  roan  to  go 
to  New  Salem  and  make  some  purchases  for  her 
self.  She  went  early  in  the  afternoon,  and  re 
turned  in  good  season  with  her  parcels.  They 
did  not  dream  that  she  had  been  in  a  strange 
spirit  of  bitterness  and  shameful  misery  and  fem 
inine  pride  to  purchase  her  wedding-gown  for  her 
marriage  with  Lot  Gordon. 

Her  frantic  and  unreasoning  impulse  of  con 
cealment  was  still  strong.  It  was  almost  as  if  the 
whole  horror  of  it  were  not  so  plainly  thrust 
upon  her  if  none  but  she  knew  it;  then  there 
was  the  agony  of  shame  which  made  her  fain  to 
turn  her  back  and  deafen  her  ears  to  her  own 
self,  let  alone  all  these  others. 

They  rather  wondered,  the  next  morning, 
when  they  saw  Madelon  seated  at  work  upon 
some  shining  lengths  of  silk,  at  the  magnificence 
of  her  purchase  in  New  Salem ;  but  they  knew 
that  she  had  a  little  private  fund  of  her  own,  which 
they  had  never  questioned  her  right  to  spend. 


MADELOX  201 

" Guess  she's  been  saving  her  egg -and -but 
ter  money/'  Abner  said,  when  she  went  out  for 
something. 

His  father  nodded.  "  Glad  she's  got  a  new 
gown.  Guess  she'll  show  folks  she  ain't  quite 
done  for  on  account  of  that  fellow/'  he  said. 

When  Madelon  was  seated  at  her  work  again, 
and  he  passed  her  to  leave  the  room,  he  laid  a 
heavy,  caressing  hand  on  her  black  head.  "  Glad 
ye've  got  ye  a  handsome  gown,"  said  he.  "It's 
money  well  spent." 

That  day  there  was  a  great  snow-storm — the 
last  of  the  season.  There  had  been  many  such 
that  winter.  Snow  fell  upon  snow,  and  the  bare 
ground  was  never  seen.  This  time  the  storm 
lasted  two  days.  On  the  morning  of  the  third 
the  sun  came  out  and  the  wind  blew.  There  was  a 
northern  gale  all  day.  The  new  snow  arose  like  a 
white  spirit  from  its  downfall,  and  was  again  all 
abroad  in  the  air.  It  moved  across  the  fields  in 
great  diamond-glittering  shafts ;  it  crested  itself 
over  the  brows  of  hills  in  flashing  waves ;  it  length 
ened  its  sharp  slants  of  white  light  from  hour  to 
hour  against  the  windward  sides  of  the  fences  and 
houses. 

On  the  morning  of  the  next  day  everything  was 
still.  The  snow  lay  transfixed  in  blue  whirlpools 
around  the  trees  ;  the  fields  were  full  of  frozen 
eddies,  and  the  hill-tops  curled  with  white  wave- 
crests  which  never  broke.  There  was  a  dead 


202  MADELON 

calm,  and  the  mercury  was  fourteen  degrees  be 
low  zero.  Everything  seemed  in  the  white  re 
gion  of  death  after  the  delirium  of  storm.  That 
morning  Madclon  Hautville,  after  her  household 
tasks  were  done,  sat  down  again  to  sew  her  wed 
ding-dress.  The  silk  was  of  changeable  tints,  and 
flashed  in  patches  of  green  and  gold  as  it  lay  over 
her  knee  and  swept  around  her  to  the  floor. 

All  the  others  had  gone,  but  presently,  as  she 
sewed,  Richard  came  in  with  some  parcels.  He 
had  been  on  an  errand  to  the  store.  He  tossed 
the  packages  on  the  dresser,  then  he  went  and 
stood  directly  in  front  of  his  sister,  looking  at  her. 

" I  want  to  know  if  it's  true,"  said  he. 

Then  Madelon  knew  that  he  had  heard.  "  Yes," 
said  she. 

"And  that  is — "     Richard  pointed  at  the  silk. 

"Yes." 

Richard  continued  to  look  at  his  sister  and  the 
gorgeous  silk.  There  was  consternation  in  his 
look,  and  withal  a  certain  relief.  Boy  as  he  was, 
he  reasoned  it  out  astutely.  If  Madelon  married 
Lot  Gordon  the  merest  shadow  of  suspicion  that 
her  confession  had  been  true  would  not  cling  to 
her,  and  Richard  hated  Burr,  and  was  fiercely  tri 
umphant  that  he  should  not  think  his  sister  dy 
ing  for  love  of  him  ;  and  then  Burr  would  lose  the 
Gordon  money. 

All  at  once  Madelon  rose  up,  let  her  silk 
breadths  slip  rustling  to  the  floor,  and  took  Rich- 


MADELON  203 

ard  by  the  shoulder.  "  Richard/'  she  said, 
"why  could  you  not  have  told  the  truth  about 
the  knife,  and  not  forced  me  to  this  ?  Why  could 
you  not  ?" 

The  boy  looked  aside  from  her  doggedly.  "I 
don't  know  what  you  mean  about  a  knife/'  said 
he,  but  his  voice  shook. 

"Yes,  you  do  know,  Richard!  It  is  all  over 
now.  I  must  marry  Lot.  I  have  promised.  I 
shall  not  try  to  escape  it — I  shall  not  try  again  to 
make  people  believe  it  was  I.  If  you  were  to  tell 
the  truth  now  it  would  do  no  good.  But  you  must 
tell  me  this,  Richard.  How  came  Burr  Gordon's 
knife  there  instead  of  yours  ?" 

The  boy  hesitated. 

"Richard,  you  know  you  can  trust  me." 

"  Well,"  said  Richard,  slowly,  in  a  low  voice,  "  I 
came  right  up  behind  Burr  before  you  were  hard 
ly  out  of  sight.  I'd  got  uneasy  about  your  going 
home  alone,  and  Fd  thought  I'd  follow  you  un 
beknown  to  you,  and  turn  'round  and  go  back 
when  you  were  safe  in  sight  of  home.  Burr 
pulled  my  knife  out  of  the  wound  quick  and  wiped 
it  on  the  snow.  'Take  it  quick/  says  he,  and  I 
knew  what  he  meant,  and  put  it  in  my  pocket, 
and  slid  out  of  sight  in  the  bushes ;  and  then  he 
whipped  out  his  knife  and  laid  it  in  the  pool  of 
blood,  and  the  others  came  up,  and  'twas  all  done 
in  a  second.  That's  how." 

"He  did  it  to  save  me/'  said  Madelon,  and  her 


204  MADELON 

voice  was  fuller  of  exultant  sweetness  than  it  had 
ever  been  in  a  song. 

"He's  a  rascal,  that's  what  he  is !"  said  Rich 
ard.  "If  he  hadn't  treated  you  so,  it  wouldn't 
ever  have  happened." 

"He  did  it  to  save  me,"  said  Mad  el  on,  as  if  to 
herself;  "it's  worth  all  I'm  going  to  do  to  save 
him."  She  sat  down  again,  and  took  up  her  wed 
ding-dress,  and  resumed  sewing.  Richard  stood 
looking  at  her  a  minute  ;  then  he  got  his  gun  off 
the  hooks  where  he  kept  it,  put  on  his  fur  cap, 
and  went  out. 

Madelon  sat  and  sewed,  in  a  broad  slant  of  Avin- 
try  sunshine,  for  tin  hour  longer.  Then  a  shad 
ow  passed  suddenly  athwart  the  floor,  the  door 
opened,  and  Burr  Gordon  was  in  the  room.  He 
came  straight  across  to  her,  but  she  sat  still  and 
drew  her  needle  through  her  wedding- silk. 

"Madelon !"  he  cried  out,  "is  this  true  that  I 
have  just  heard  ?  Madelon  !" — Burr  Gordon's 
handsome  face  was  white  as  death,  and  he 
breathed  hard,  as  if  he  had  been  running — "  Mad 
elon  !  tell  me,  for  God's  sake,  is  it — true  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Madelon.  She  took  another  stitch. 
The  self-restraint  of  her  New  England  mother 
was  upon  her  then.  Burr  Gordon,  betrothed  to 
Dorothy  Fair,  loving  her  not,  yet  still  noble 
enough  and  kind  enough  to  have  perilled  his  life 
to  save  hers,  should  know  nothing  of  the  greater 
sacrifice  she  was  making  for  him. 


MADELON  205 

"  You  are  going  to  marry — Lot  ?" 
"Yes.* 

"Oh,  my  God!" 

Burr  Gordon  stood  a  moment  looking  at  the 
girl  sewing  the  breadths  of  shining  silk.  Then 
he  went  over  to  the  settle  and  sat  down  there, 
and  bent  over,  leaning  his  head  on  his  hands.  He 
knew  no  more  at  that  moment  of  Madelon's  mind 
than  an  utter  stranger. 

It  well  might  be,  he  thought,  that  she  no  long 
er  cared  for  him.  It  was  not  long  since  she  had 
seemed  to,  but  women,  he  had  always  heard,  were 
fickle,  and  he  had  so  treated  her  that  it  might 
have  turned  any  woman's  heart  cold.  And  his 
cousin  Lot  had  the  family  wealth,  and  if  she  mar 
ried  him  she  would  inherit  it,  and  not  he.  What 
could  he  say  to  her,  sewing  so  calmly  upon  her 
wedding-dress,  seemingly  in  utter  acquiescence 
and  content  with  her  fate  ?  Could  he  take  an 
other  step  without  going  deeper  into  the  slough  of 
shame  and  distress  where  it  seemed  to  him  he  al 
ready  stood  ?  And  there  was  Dorothy. 

Madelon  never  glanced  at  him  as  she  sewed. 
Presently  he  arose  and  went  over  to  her  again. 
"Madelon,"  he  said,  hesitatingly,  coloring  red, 
"tell  me  you  do  not  have  any  hard  feelings  tow 
ards  me  ?  I  know  I  deserve  it." 

"You  deserve  nothing;  it  is  I,"  she  said,  in  a 
low  voice. 

"Toil" 


206  MADELON 

"  I  know  what  you  did  to  save  my  life,"  she  said. 
Her  voice  gave  out  a  rich  thrill,  like  a  musical 
tone,  as  she  spoke.  She  bent  lower  over  her  work. 

"That  was  nothing.  Madelon" — he  paused  a 
moment;  she  was  silent — "Madelon,  tell  me. 
Are  you — are  you  satisfied — with  this  step  you 
are  going  to  take  ?" 

"Yes." 

' '  There  is  nothing  I  can  do  ?  You  know  I  would 
do — anything  to —  You  know  if  you  wished — I 
would  do  whatever  you  said." 

"You  will  marry  Dorothy  Fair,"  Madelon  said, 
in  such  a  tone  of  calm  assertion  that  he  quailed 
before  it. 

"  Then  you — are  satisfied  to — marry  Lot —  It 
is  your  wish  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Oh,  my  God  !"  said  Burr,  and  went  out,  while 
Madelon  took  another  stitch  in  her  wedding- 
gown. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

HOWEVER  the  tale  of  Madelon's  and  Lot's  en 
gagement  had  found  mouth — whether  Margaret 
Bean  had  vented  her  knowledge  when  it  grew  too 
big  for  her  or  not — it  was  scarce  one  day  before 
the  whole  village  was  agape  with  it.  With  that 
tendency  of  the  human  mind  born  of  involuntary 
self-knowledge  which  leads  it  to  suspect  a  selfish 
motive  in  all  untoward  actions,  many  gave  un 
hesitatingly  a  reason  for  Madelon's  choice. 

The  women  nodded  astutely  at  each  other,  and 
the  men  exchanged  shrewd  affirmative  grunts. 
"  She's  goin'  to  marry  Lot  to  pay  off  Burr/'  they 
all  agreed.  "  She'll  get  all  the  money." 

Madelon  herself  had  never  thought  of  that. 
She  had  never  considered  the  fact  that  her  mar 
riage  with  Lot  would  rob  Burr  of  his  prospective 
wealth ;  and,  if  she  had,  she  would  have  dismissed 
the  thought  as  of  no  moment.  Capacity  for 
revenge  of  that  sort  was  not  in  her;  even  the 
imagination  of  it  was  lacking.  She  would  simply 
have  resolved  to  give  the  property  to  Burr  if  she 
should  outlive  Lot,  and  she  would  have  carried 
out  her  resolution.  Consciously,  perhaps,  this 


208  MABELON 

consideration  was  110  more  evident  to  her  father 
and  her  brothers  than  to  herself.  The  Hautvilles 
were  not  mercenary,  and  retaliation,  involving 
personal  profit  at  the  expense  of  an  enemy,  was 
not  of  their  code.  They  did  have,  however,  a 
consideration  no  less  selfish,  in  a  way,  and  no  less 
acute  when  they  heard  the  news.  One  and  all 
thought,  "  Now  Madelon  will  be  cleared  of  all 
suspicion  that  she  may  have  brought  upon  her 
self.  Nobody  will  believe  that  Lot  Gordon  would 
marry  a  girl  who  attempted  his  life.  Every  hint 
of  disgrace  will  be  removed  from  her  and  us  all 
by  this  marriage/' 

Louis,  when  he  heard  the  news,  gave  an  in 
voluntary  glance  at  his  own  hands  at  the  thought 
of  Madelon's  crimsoned  ones,  to  which  he  had 
tried  to  blind  his  memory.  "  Well,  maybe  it's 
the  best  thing  that  could  happen,"  he  said,  grimly, 
but  his  wonder  over  it  was  great.  He  knew  well 
enough,  however  he  tried  to  hide  the  knowledge 
from  himself,  that  Madelon's  story  had  been  true. 
He  looked  at  his  brother  Eichard,  and  Eichard 
looked  back  at  him  ;  and  one's  knowledge  for  once 
faced  the  other's  boldly  in  their  utter  astonish 
ment.  Then  they  nodded  at  each  other  in  a  stern 
understanding  of  assent.  It  was  best  their  sister 
should  cover  her  crime  and  avert  the  disgrace, 
which  she  had  seemed  to  hang  over  all  of  them, 
in  that  way. 

When  the  male  Hautvilles  came  home  to  dinner, 


MADELON  209 

on  the  noon  of  the  day  after  Burr  called,  Made- 
Ion  knew  at  once  that  they  had  all  heard.  They 
sat  down  to  the  table  and  ate  in  silence.  None 
of  them  spoke  a  word  to  Madelon  on  the  subject, 
but  she  knew  they  had  heard.  After  dinner  they 
all  went  out  again  except  her  father.  He  stood 
on  the  hearth,  filling  his  pipe  moodily,  with  an 
automatic  motion  of  his  fingers,  his  eyes  aloof. 
Madelon  moved  about  with  quick,  decided  mo 
tions,  clearing  the  dinner-table.  David,  when 
the  tobacco  was  well  packed  in  his  pipe -bowl, 
turned  his  eyes  mechanically  upon  the  glowing 
coals  on  the  hearth,  but  made  no  motion  to  light 
it.  He  looked  slowly  and  furtively  about  pres 
ently  at  Madelon's  wedding  -  silk,  which  lay 
heaped  in  a  chair  with  a  green  and  gold  shimmer, 
as  of  leaves  and  flowers.  All  unmoved  by,  and 
oblivious  of,  the  splendor  of  woman's  gear  was 
David  Hautville  usually,  but  this  silk,  radiant 
with  the  weaving  of  party-lights,  affected  him 
with  a  memory  of  old  happiness,  so  vague  that  it 
was  scarce  more  than  a  memory  of  a  memory.  In 
splendid  silken  raiment  had  Madelon's  mother 
gone  as  a  bride  years  ago.  It  had  been  in  reality 
widely  different  from  this  gown  of  Madelon's, 
but  still,  looking  at  this,  David  Hautville's  mas 
culine  eyes  saw  dimly  beyond  it  another  dapple 
of  gorgeous  tints,  and  heard  a  soft  rustle  of  silken 
skirts  out  of  the  past.  He  would  not  have  said 
that  this  bright  mass  of  silk  in  the  chair  made 

14 


210  MADELON 

him  think  of  his  wife's  wedding-gown,  but  he 
knew  by  that  thought  it  was  Madelon's.  He 
stared  at  it,  scowling  over  his  great  mustache. 
Then  he  looked  slowly  around  at  his  daughter. 
She  was  just  coming  out  of  the  pantry,  and  faced 
him  as  he  spoke. 

"I  suppose  this  is  true  I've  heard,"  said  he. 

Madelon's  face  blazed  red  before  his  eyes,  but 
her  mouth  was  firm  and  hard,  and  her  eyes  un 
flinching.  "  Yes,  sir,"  she  replied  ;  and  she  took 
a  dish  from  the  table  and  turned  about,  and  went 
again  into  the  pantry,  carrying  it. 

David  Hautville,  rearing  his  great  height  before 
the  fire,  casting  a  long  shadow  over  the  room, 
stood,  holding  his  unlighted  pipe,  and  staring 
again  at  the  wedding -silk,  until  his  daughter 
returned.  Then  he  brought  his  gaze  to  bear 
upon  her  again. 

"  I  suppose  you've  thought  over  what  you're 
going  to  do,  and  feel  it's  for  the  best/'  said  he, 
with  a  kind  of  stern  embarrassment.  David  Haut 
ville  felt  no  resentment  because  his  daughter  had 
not  confided  her  engagement  to  him.  From  his 
very  lack  of  understanding  of  the  feminine  char 
acter,  and  his  bewilderment  over  it,  he  was  dis 
posed  to  give  his  daughter  a  Avide  latitude  in  a 
matter  of  this  kind.  Not  comprehending  the 
feminine  gait  to  matrimony,  but  recognizing  its 
inevitability,  he  was  inclined  to  stand  silently 
out  of  the  road,  unless  his  prejudices  were  too 


MADELON  211 

violently  shocked.  He  had  also  a  mild  respect 
for,  and  understanding  of,  reticence  concerning 
one's  own  aifairs,  and  was,  moreover,  furtively 
satisfied  with  the  match. 

"  Yes,  I  have,"  answered  Madelon,  calmly. 

"How  soon  were  you  calculating — "  asked 
her  father,  pressing  the  tobacco  harder  into  the 
pipe-bowl,  and  casting  a  meditative  eye  at  the 
coals. 

"  He  said  a  month — that  was  three  weeks  ago 
Monday.  To  -  day  is  Wednesday."  Madelon 
Hautville  spoke  with  her  proud  chin  raised,  and 
her  eyes  as  compelling  as  a  queen's  ;  but  in  spite 
of  herself  there  came  into  her  voice  the  tone  of 
one  who  counts  the  days  to  death. 

Her  father  looked  at  her  sharply.  She  turned 
again  towards  her  task  at  the  table.  "Well, 
Lot  Gordon  can  give  ye  a  good  home,"  said  he. 
"His  health  ain't  very  good,  that's  the  most  I 
see  about  it.  But  he  may  last  a  number  of  years 
yet — folks  in  consumption  do  sometimes ;  and  I 
hear  he's  gettin'  over  that  cut  he  give  himself. 
I  suppose  he  did  that  because  he  thought  you 
wouldn't  have  him." 

Madelon,  moving  about  the  table,  did  not  say 
a  word. 

"It  must  have  been  that,"  said  David  Haut 
ville.  "  I  suppose  he  thought  you  favored — " 
he  was  about  to  speak  Burr's  name  ;  then  he 
stopped  short.  He  was  usually  one  to  plunge 


212  MADELON 

upon  dangerous  ground,  but  this  time  something 
stopped  him — perhaps  a  look  in  his  daughter's 
face.  He  laid  his  pipe  carefully  on  the  mantel 
shelf,  went  over  to  Madelon,  and  laid  a  heavily 
tender  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

"  D'ye  want  any  money  to  buy  your  wedding- 
fixings  with  ?"  he  said,  in  a  half-whisper. 

"  Fve  got  all  I  want,"  replied  Madelon,  winc 
ing  as  if  he  had  struck  her. 

"Because  I've  sold  some  skins,  lately,  and 
wood."  David  plunged  a  hand  into  his  pocket, 
und  began  to  pull  out  a  leather  pouch  jingling 
with  coins. 

"Fve  got  all  the  money  I  want,  father, "said 
Madelon,  catching  her  breath  a  little,  but  keep 
ing  her  face  steady.  Could  her  father  have  un 
derstood,  if  she  had  told  him,  the  pretty  maiden 
providence,  almost  like  one  of  the  primal  in 
stincts,  which  had  led  her  to  save,  year  after  year, 
little  sums  from  her  small  earnings,  towards  her 
wedding  -  outfit  ?  Could  he,  with  his  powerful 
masculine  grasp  of  the  large  woes  of  life,  have 
sensed  this  lesser  one,  and  fairly  known  the  pite 
ous  struggle  it  cost  Madelon  to  spend  her  poor 
little  wealth,  which  was  to  have  furnished  adorn 
ment  for  her  bridal  happiness  with  her  lover,  for 
such  a  purpose  as  this  ?  Had  she  turned  upon 
him  then  and  there,  and  told  him  that  she  hated 
Lot  Gordon,  and  would  rather  lie  down  in  her 
grave  than  be  his  wife,  he  might  have  grasped 


MADELON  siar 

that  indeed,  altliougli  not  in  her  full  sense  of  it, 
for  the  same  sense  of  misery  of  that  kind  comes 
not  to  a  man  and  a  woman  ;  but  the  other  he 
would  have  puzzled  over  and  solved  it  by  his  one 
sweeping  solution  of  all  feminine  problems — by 
femininity  itself. 

However,  he  continued  to  stand  beside  his 
daughter,  looking  at  her  across  that  great  gulf 
of  original  conceptions  of  things  which  love  it 
self  can  never  quite  bridge.  Tears  came  into  his 
keen  black  eyes,  and  his  voice  was  hoarse  when 
he  spoke  again.  "Well,  Madelon,"  said  David 
Hautville,  with  a  firmer  laying  on  of  his  heavy 
hand  on  his  daughter's  shoulder,  "ye've  been  a 
good  daughter  and  sister,  and  we're  all  of  us 
glad  you've  got  over  this  last  foolishness,  and  we 
don't  lay  it  up  against  ye,  and — we'll  all  miss 
ye  when  ye're  gone." 

Madelon  moved  quietly  away  from  her  father's 
roughly  tender  hand.  "I  thought  maybe  the 
Widow  Scoville  would  be  willing  to  come  here 
and  live,"  said  she.  "She's  a  good  cook  and 
a  good  housekeeper.  I'm  going  to  see  her  about 
it." 

"'Well,  we'll  see,"  said  David  Hautville,  huski 
ly — "we'll  see."  He  turned  away,  and  looked 
irresolutely  at  the  shelf  whereon  his  pipe  lay,  at 
the  wedding-silk  on  the  chair,  at  his  great  boots 
in  the  corner  at  the  outer  door,  then  at  his  bass- 
viol  leaning  in  the  corner  which  the  dresser 


214  M'ADKLOK 

formed  against  the  wall,  and  a  light  of  decision 
flashed  into  his  eyes. 

He  drew  his  old  arm-chair  nearer  the  fire,  car 
ried  the  viol  over  to  it,  set  it  between  his  knees, 
flung  an  arm  around  its  neck  and  began  to  play. 
His  great  chest  heaved  tenderly  over  it ;  its 
sweetly  sonorous  voice  spoke  to  his  soul.  Here 
was  the  friend  who  vexed  David  Hautville  with 
no  problems  of  character  or  sex,  but  filled  his 
simple  understanding  without  appeal.  These 
chords  in  which  the  viol  spoke  were  from  the 
foundations  of  things,  like  the  spring-time  and 
the  harvest  and  the  frosts  ;  they  abided  eternally 
through  all  the  vain  speculations  of  life,  and 
sounded  above  the  grave.  No  imagination  of  a 
great  artist  had  David  Hautville,  but  his  music 
was  to  him  like  his  woodcraft.  He  traced  out 
the  chords  and  the  harmonies  with  the  same 
fervor  that  he  followed  the  course  of  a  stream  or 
climbed  a  mountain-path.  A  great  player  was 
he,  although  the  power  of  creation  was  not  in 
him,  for  he  fingered  his  viol  with  the  ardor  of  a 
soul  set  in  its  favorite  w^ay  of  all  others.  As 
David  Hautville  played  his  great  resonant  viol 
he  forgot  all  about  his  own  perplexity  and  his 
daughter's  love-troubles ;  but  she,  listening  as 
she  worked,  did  not  forget. 

Madelon,  swept  around  with  these  sweet  waves 
of  sounds,  never  once  had  her  memory  of  her  own 
misery  submerged.  A  strange  double  conscious- 


MADELON  215 

ness  she  had,  as  she  listened,  of  her  senses  and 
her  soul.  All  her  nerves  lapsed  involuntarily 
into  delight  at  the  sounds  they  loved,  and  all  her 
soul  wept  above  all  melodies  and  harmonies  in 
her  ears.  The  spirit  of  an  artist  had  Madelon, 
and  could,  had  she  wished,  have  made  the  songs 
she  sung ;  and  for  that  very  reason  music  could 
never  carry  her  away  from  her  own  self. 

She  finished  her  household  tasks  and  sat  down 
again  to  sew  upon  her  wedding-gown.  After  a 
while  her  father  ceased  playing,  and  leaned  his 
viol  tenderly  back  in  its  corner,  pulled  on  his 
great  boots,  put  on  his  leather  jacket  and  his  fur 
cap,  lighted  his  pipe,  shouldered  his  gun,  and 
set  out  with  his  eyes  full  of  the  abstraction  of 
one  who  follows  alone  a  different  path. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THEI?  Madelon  sat  alone,  sewing,  setting  nice 
stitches  in  her  green-and-gold  silk.  Like  other 
women,  heretofore  when  she  had  sewn  a  new 
gown  she  had  builded  for  herself  air-castles  of 
innocent  vanity  and  love  when  she  should  be 
dressed  in  it.  Now  she  builded  no  more,  but  saf 
and  sewed  among  the  ruins  of  all  her  happy 
maiden  fancies.  She  had  given  herself  no  care 
concerning  any  other  arrangements  for  her  wed 
ding  than  this  gown — she  felt  even  no  curiosity 
concerning  it.  She  left  all  that  to  Lot,  as  a 
victim  leaves  the  details  of  his  death  to  the  exe 
cutioner.  She  supposed  he  would  send  for  her 
and  tell  her  before  long.  When  she  heard  a 
scraping  step  at  the  door  she  knew  instinctively 
that  the  message  had  come. 

Margaret  Bean's  husband's  simple  old  face  con 
fronted  her  when  she  opened  the  door.  The 
weather  was  moderating  fast  that  morning.  The 
sun  had  the  warmth  of  spring,  and  the  old  man 
stood  in  a  shower  of  rainbow  drops  from  the 
melting  icicles  on  the  eaves.  He  handed  her  a 
letter,  backed  clumsily  and  apologetically  from 


217 

under  the  drops,  then  retreated  carefully  down 
the  slippery  path,  his  clumsy  old  joints  jolting. 

Madelon,  back  in  the  kitchen,  stood  for  a 
second  looking  at  the  letter.  Then  she  opened 
it,  and  read  the  message  written  in  Lot  Gordon's 
strange  poetic  style  : 

"  MADELON, — The  rose  waits  in  the  garden  for  her  lover, 
because  he  has  wings  and  she  has  none.  But  had  the 
rose  wings  and  her  lover  none,  then  would  she  leave  her 
garden  and  fly  to  him  with  her  honey  in  her  heart,  for 

love  must  be  found. 

"LoT  GORDON." 

Enough  strength  of  New  England  blood  Made- 
Ion  had  to  feel  towards  Lot  a  new  impulse  of 
scorn  that  he  should  write  her  thus,  instead  of 
bidding  her  come,  simply,  like  a  man,  displaying 
his  power  over  her  that  they  both  knew. 

Small  store  of  honey  did  she  bear  in  her  heart 
when  she  set  out  to  obey  Lot's  call.  She  hurried 
along,  indeed,  with  her  cloak  flying  out  at  either 
side,  like  red  wings  in  the  south  wind,  but  not 
from  eagerness  to  see  her  lover.  She  was  in  con 
stant  dread  lest  she  meet  Burr  on  the  road  ;  but 
she  gained  Lot's  house  without  seeing  him  or 
knowing  that  his  miserable,  jealous  eyes  watched 
her  from  an  opposite  window. 

Burr  was  up  in  his  chamber  when  Madelon 
went  into  his  cousin's  house.  Presently  he  went 
down-stairs,  where  his  mother  was,  with  a  face 
so  full  of  the  helpless  appeal  of  agony  that  she 


218  MADELOX 

looked  at  him  as  she  used  to  do  when  he  came  in 
hurt  from  play. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Burr,  are  you  sick?" 
she  said,  in  her  quiet  voice.  She  was  sitting  in 
a  rocking-chair  in  the  sun  with  her  knitting- 
work.  She  swayed  on  gently  as  she  spoke,  and 
her  long,  delicate  fingers  still  slipped  the  yarn 
over  the  needle. 

"  Yes,  I  am  sick,  mother ;  I  am  sick  to  death," 
Burr  groaned  out.  Then  he  went  down  on  the 
floor  at  his  mother's  feet,  and  hid  his  face  in  her 
lap,  as  he  had  used  to  do  when  he  was  a  child 
in  trouble.  Mrs.  Gordon's  stern  repose  of  man 
ner  had  never  seemed  to  repel  any  demonstra 
tion  of  her  son's.  Now  she  continued  to  knit 
above  his  head,  but  he  apparently  felt  no  lack  of 
sympathy  in  her. 

She  asked  no  more  questions,  but  waited  for 
him  to  speak.  "  She's  just  gone  in  there,"  he 
half  sobbed  out,  presently.  "  Oh,  mother,  what 
shall  I  do— what  shall  I  do  ?" 

"  You'll  have  to  get  used  to  it,"  said  his  moth 
er.  "  You'll  have  to  make  up  your  mind  to  it, 
Burr." 

"  Mother,  I  can't !  Oh,  God,  I  can't  see  her 
every  day  there  with  him.  Mother,  we've  got  to 
sell  out  and  move  away.  You'll  be  willing  to, 
won't  you  ?  Won't  you,  mother  ?" 

"You  forget  Dorothy.  She  can't  leave  the 
town  where  her  father  is." 


MADELON  219 

"  I  wish  I  could  forget  Dorothy  in  honor  !" 
Burr  cried  out. 

"You  can't/'  said  his  mother,  "and  there's 
an  end  of  it." 

"  I  know  it,"  said  Burr.  He  got  up  and  stood 
looking  moodily  out  of  the  window. 

"  You  know,"  said  his  mother,  still  knitting, 
"how  I  have  felt  from  the  very  first  about  Mad- 
elon  Hautville.  I  never  approved  of  her  for  a 
wife  for  you ;  I  approve  of  her  still  less  now, 
after  her  violent  conduct  and  her  consent  to 
marry  Lot,  whom  she  cannot  care  for.  Still, 
since  you  feel  as  you  do  about  it,  I  should  be 
glad  to  have  you  marry  her,  if  such  a  thing 
could  be  done  with  any  show  of  honor ;  but  it 
cannot.  You  know  that  as  well  as  I.  You 
must  marry  Dorothy  Fair,  and  Madelon  is  going 
to  marry  Lot.  Leaving  everything  else  out  of 
the  question,  it  is  out  of  your  power  to  say  any 
thing  on  account  of  the  money  which  you  will 
lose  by  her  marriage  with  him.  You  know  what 
she  might  think." 

"  Curse  the  money  !"  Burr  cried  out.  "Curse 
the  money  and  the  position  and  all  the  damned 
lot  of  bubbles  that  come  between  a  man  and 
what's  worth  more,  and  will  last  I" 

"  Burr,  don't  talk  so  !" 

"I  can't  help  it,  mother.  I  mean  it.  Curse 
it,  I  say,  and  the  infernal  weakness  that  makes 
a  man  see  double  on  women's  faces  when  there's 


220  MADELOX 

only  one  woman  in  his  heart!  Mother,  why 
didn't  you  know  about  that  last,  so  you  could 
tell  me  when  I  was  a  boy  ?" 

His  mother  colored  a  little.     "  I  never  taught 

O 

you  to  be  fickle/'  she  said,  with  a  kind  of  shamed 
bewilderment. 

"  I  never  have  been  fickle.  This  is  something 
else  worse.''  Burr  looked  at  his  mother  again, 
with  the  old  expression  of  his  when  he  had  come 
in  hurt  from  play.  No  matter  how  long  Burr 
Gordon  might  live,  no  matter  what  brave  deeds 
he  might  do — and  there  was  brave  stuff  in  him, 
for  he  would  have  gone  to  the  gallows  rather 
than  betray  Madelon — there  would  always  be  in 
him  the  appeal  of  a  child  to  the  woman  who 
loved  him.  "Mother,  I  don't  know  how  to 
bear  it,"  he  said. 

"You  must  bear  it  like  a  man." 

"It  is  hard  to  bear  the  consequence  of  un 
manly  conduct  like  a  man,"  said  Burr,  shortly ; 
then  he  went  out,  as  if  the  old  comfort  from  his 
mother  had  failed  him.  As  for  her,  she  finished 
heeling  her  stocking,  and  then  went  out  into  the 
kitchen  and  made  a  pudding  that  her  son  loved 
for  his  dinner. 

Burr  went  back  up-stairs  to  his  cold  chamber, 
and  watched  for  Madelon  to  come  out  of  Lot's 
house.  It  seemed  to  him  she  was  there  an 
eternity,  but  in  reality  it  was  only  a  half -hour. 

She  had  found  Lot  sitting  as  usual  before  the 


MADELOK  221 

fire  with  a  leather-covered  volume  on  his  knees. 
"I  have  come/'  she  said,,  standing  just  inside 
the  door ;  then  she  started  at  the  look  he  gave 
her.  There  was  a  significance  in  it  which  she 
could  not  understand. 

He  did  not  say  a  word  for  full  five  minutes 
while  she  waited.  He  did  not  even  ask  her  to  be 
seated.  <e  Do  you  know  the  date  ?"  he  asked 
then,  harshly.  There  was  no  hint  of  roses  and 
honey  in  his  speech  and  manner  to  offend  her 
like  his  letter. 

"Yes,  I  do." 

"You  know  the  month  is  up  on  Monday  ?" 

"  I  am  not  likely  to  forget/' 

"True/'  said  Lot;  "it  is  the  last  thing  a  girl 
will  forget — the  day  set  for  her  happy  marriage." 
He  laughed. 

Madelon's  face  contracted.  She  set  her  mouth 
harder,  and  looked  straight  at  Lot.  "  When  you 
have  done  laughing/7  said  she,  "will  you  tell 
me  what  you  want  of  me  ?  I  have  to  go  home 
and  get  dinner." 

Lot  still  looked  at  her  with  his  mocking  smile. 
"  I  wished  to  inquire  if  you  are  ready  to  become 
my  bride  on  Monday,"  said  he. 

"Yes,  I  am  ready.     Is  that  all  ?" 

"I  wished  also  to  inquire  if  you  have  any 
plans  concerning  the  ceremony  which  you  would 
like  carried  out." 

"I  have  none." 


222  MADELON 

"Then  will  it  suit  yon  to  come  here  on  Mon 
day  at  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  since  the 
doctor  tells  me  I  shall  scarcely  be  able  to  go  out 
myself,  and  be  united  to  me  by  Parson  Fair  ?" 

"I  am  ready  to  carry  out  any  plans  you  may 
make." 

"Your  father  and  your  brothers  and  my 
cousin  Burr  and  his  mother  will,  of  course,  be 
present  at  our  wedding,"  said  Lot,  with  wary 
eyes  upon  her  face. 

Madelon  looked  at  him  as  proudly  as  ever. 
"Very  well,"  said  she.  She  waited  a  minute 
longer;  then  she  laid  her  hand  on  the  door- 
latch. 

"Wait  a  minute!"  Lot  cried.  He  looked  at 
her  hesitatingly.  A  flush  crept  over  his  white 
face.  "Madelon,"  he  began;  then  his  cough 
interrupted  him.  He  tried  to  force  it  back  with 
fierce  swallowings,  but  had  to  yield.  He  bent 
over  double,  and  shook  with  rattling  volleys. 
Madelon  waited,  her  eyes  averted,  without  a  sign 
of  pity.  The  near  approach  of  her  wedding-day 
caused  a  revolt  of  her  whole  maiden  soul  tow 
ards  him  so  intense  that  it  was  as  a  contrac 
tion  of  the  muscles.  She  was  utterly  hard  to  his 
suffering.  At  last  he  raised  himself,  panting, 
and  cast  a  pale  look  around  at  her. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  want  ?"  she  said. 

He  motioned  feebly  towards  his  desk  on  the 
other  side  of  the  room.  "  Top  drawer,"  he  whis- 


MADELON  223 

pered,  hoarsely;  "left-hand  corner  —  find  — 
leather  case — bring  to  me." 

Madelon  crossed  the  room  to  the  desk,  opened 
the  drawer,  found  the  leather  case,  and  carried 
it  to  Lot.  "Here,"  said  she. 

"  Open  it,"  Lot  whispered. 

Madelon  pressed  the  spring  in  the  case,  and 
held  it  out  open  towards  Lot  without  a  glance 
at  its  contents. 

"Look,"  he  said. 

Madelon  glanced  at  the  little  gold  watch, 
curled  round  with  a  long  gold  chain,  which  the 
case  contained,  and  continued  to  hold  it  out  tow 
ards  Lot.  "  Fve  looked,"  said  she.  "  Here,  take 
it;  I  must  go  home." 

"Oh,  Madelon,  it's  for  you." 

"I  don't  want  it." 

"  Take  it — Madelon,  won't  you  have  it  ?  I 
got  it  for  you." 

"No,  I  don't  want  it.  Shall  I  put  it  back  in 
the  drawer  ?" 

"  Don't  you  think  it's  a  pretty  watch  ?" 

"  Yes.     Shall  I  put  it  back  ?" 

"You  haven't  any  watch,  Madelon." 

"  I  don't  want  one."  Madelon  closed  the  case 
impatiently,  and  turned  away. 

"Oh,  Madelon,  won't  you  take  it?"  Lot 
begged,  piteously. 

"I  told  you  no — I  do  not  care  for  it."  Mad 
elon  put  the  case  back  in  the  desk  drawer. 


224  MADELOtf 

Then  she  drew  her  cloak  together,  and  went  to 
the  door  again. 

"  Oh/'  said  Lot  Gordon,  weakly,  in  his  hoarse 
voice,  "the  hardest  thing  in  the  whole  world  for 
Love  to  bruise  himself  against  is  the  tender  heart 
of  a  woman,  when  'tis  not  inclined  his  way." 

"  Good-bye,"  said  Madelon,  and  shut  the  door 
behind  her  fiercely.  That  last  speech  of  Lot's, 
which,  like  many  of  his  speeches,  seemed  to  her 
no  human  vernacular,  added  terror  to  her  aver 
sion  of  him.  "  He's  more  like  a  book  than  a 
man,"  she  had  often  thought,  and  the  fancy 
seized  her  now  that  the  great  leather-bound 
book  upon  his  knees,  and  all  those  leather-bound 
books  against  his  walls,  had  somehow  possessed 
him  with  an  uncanny  life  of  their  own. 

And  she  may  have  been  in  a  measure  right,  for 
Lot  Gordon,  during  his  whole  life,  had  dealt  in 
directly  with  human  hearts  through  their  trans 
lations  in  his  beloved  books  rather  than  with  the 
beating  hearts  of  men  and  women  around  him. 
Still,  although  he  spoke  like  one  who  learns  a 
language  from  books  instead  of  the  familiar  con 
verse  of  people,  and  his  thoughts  clothed  them 
selves  in  images  which  those  about  him  disdained 
and  threw  off  as  impeding  their  hard  race  of  life, 
poor  Lot  Gordon's  heart  beat  in  time  with  the 
hearts  of  his  kind.  But  that  Madelon  could  not 
know  because  hers  was  so  set  against  it. 

She  hurried  out  of  the  house  and  the  yard, 


MADELON  225 

dreading  again  lest  she  should  encounter  Burr. 
But  her  haste  was  of  no  avail,  for  he  came  straight 
down  his  opposite  terraces,  and  met  her  when  she 
reached  the  road. 

She  would  have  pushed  past  then,  but  he  stood 
squarely  before  her.  "  Madelon,  can't  I  speak 
with  you  a  minute  ?"  he  pleaded.  Madelon  saw, 
without  seeming  to  look,  that  Burr's  handsome 
face  was  white  as  death  and  haggard. 

"Are  you  sick  ?"  she  asked,  suddenly.  "'Why 
do  you  look  so  ?  What  is  the  matter  with  you  ?" 
and  she  put  a  half -bitter,  half-anxiously  compas 
sionate  weight  upon  the  you. 

"I  believe  I  am  going  mad/7  Burr  groaned, 
with  the  quick  grasp  of  a  man  at  the  pity  of  the 
woman  he  loves.  "  Oh,  Madelon  !"  He  held  out 
his  hands  towards  her  like  a  child,  but  she  stood 
back  from  him,  and  looked  straight  at  him  with 
sharp  questioning  in  her  eyes. 

"  Do  you  mean — "  she  began ;  then  stopped,  and 
questioned  him  with  her  eyes  again.  She  was 
seized  with  the  belief,  which  filled  her  at  once 
with  agony  and  an  impulse  of  fierce  protection 
like  that  of  a  mother  defending  her  young  with 
her  own  wounded  bosom,  that  Burr  had  had  a 
falling  out  with  Dorothy. 

"  Oh,  Madelon  !"  Burr  said  again,  and  then  he 
could  say  no  more  for  very  shame  and  honor. 
He  had  run  out,  indeed,  in  a  half-frenzy. 

"  She  shall  not  play  you  false  !"  Madelon  cried 

15 


226  MADELON 

out.  "  Dorothy  Fair  shall  keep  her  word  with 
you." 

Burr  looked  at  her,  bewildered. 

"  Marry  her  at  once,"  Madelon  cried,  with  a 
quick  rush  of  her  words — "  at  once.  Do  you  hear 
me,  Burr  Gordon  ?  It's  all  the  way  to  do  with  a 
girl  like  that.  Do  you  hear  me  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  hear  you,"  Burr  said,  slowly,  as  if  he 
were  stunned. 

"Dorothy  Fair  shall  keep  her  promise  to  you 
— I  will  make  her.  She  shall  marry  you  whenever 
you  say.  I  will  go  this  very  day  and  see  her." 

"There  is  no  need  for  you  to  do  that,  Made- 
Ion.  I  will  marry  her  at  once,  as  you  advise.  I 
think  she  will  be  willing,"  Burr  said,  slowly  and 
coldly.  Then  he  left  her  without  another  word, 
and  went  up  his  terraces  with  his  back  bent  like 
an  old  man's.  He  was  holding  hard  to  his  heart 
the  surety  that  Madelon  no  longer  cared  for  him, 
for  it  is  scarcely  within  the  imagination  of  either 
man  or  woman  that  one  can  love  and  yet  give 
away.  But  by  the  time  he  entered  the  house 
his  spirit  had  awakened  within  him,  and  he  made 
a  proud  resolve  that  since  Madelon  so  advised 
and  was  herself  to  marry  that  he  would  marry 
Dorothy  Fair  as  soon  as  she  should  be  willing. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

As  for  Madelon,  she  went  home  with  her  mind 
diverted  from  her  own  unhappiness  by  Burr's, 
and,  in  spite  of  his  assurance,  might  have  gone  to 
visit  her  righteous  anger  upon  Dorothy  had  she 
not  heard  that  very  night  that  Burr  and  Parson 
Fair's  daughter  were  to  be  married  in  a  month's 
time. 

The  next  day  Lot  sent  again  for  her,  and  she 
obeyed,  with  her  proud  sense  of  duty  to  her  fu 
ture  husband,  although  every  step  she  took  tow 
ards  him  carried  her  farther  away.  His  conduct 
began  to  puzzle  her  more  than  ever.  Again  he 
sent  her  to  the  desk  drawer,  and  this  time  for  a 
roll  of  precious  rose-colored  satin  stuff,  fit  for  a 
queen's  gown  ;  but  she  would  have  none  of  that 
either,  although  he  pleaded  with  her  to  take  it. 
When  she  started  to  go  away  he  called  her  back, 
and  called  her  back,  and  when  she  came  had 
nothing  to  say,  until  she  lost  patience  and  went 
home. 

And  the  day  after  that  he  sent  again,  and  there 
was  a  great  carved  comb  for  her  in  the  desk 
drawer,  and  some  rose-colored  satin  shoes ;  but 


228  MADELON 

she  thrust  them  back  indignantly.  "Under 
stand  once  for  all,  Lot  Gordon/'  said  she,  "you 
I  will  take,  as  I  would  take  my  death,  because  I 
have  pledged  my  word  ;  but  your  presents  I  will 
not  take." 

"I  have  been  buying  them  and  treasuring 
them,  against  the  time  you  would  have  them,  for 
years,"  pleaded  Lot. 

"  I  tell  you  I  will  not  have  them,"  said  she. 

That  day,  as  the  day  before,  he  called  her  back 
again  and  again,  and  looked  at  her  as  if  he  had 
something  on  his  mind  which  he  would  and 
could  not  say;  and  she  went  home  at  last  re 
solved  not  to  go  again  until  she  was  obliged  to 
for  the  marriage  ceremony. 

The  next  day  was  Sunday,  and  Madelon  went 
to  meeting  and  sang,  as  usual.  Burr  was  not 
there,  but  pretty  Dorothy  was,  and  looked  up  at 
Madelon  with  a  kind  of  wondering  alarm  when 
she  sang.  Madelon  had  the  heart  of  one  who 
sings  her  death-song,  and  there  was  something  of 
it  in  her  face  that  morning.  Unconsciously  peo 
ple  looked  past  her,  when  her  voice  rang  out,  to 
see  some  dead  wall  of  horror  at  her  back  to  ac 
count  for  the  strange  tones  in  it  and  the  look  in 
her  face.  She  had  never  looked  handsomer, 
however,  than  she  did  that  day.  Her  cheeks  had 
the  bloom  of  roses,  and  her  black  eyes  seemed  to 
give  out  their  own  light,  like  stars. 

She  held  up  her  head  like  a  queen  as  she  sang, 


MADELON  229 

and  her  wonderful  voice  sounded  through  and 
beyond  the  viols  and  violins,  and  all  the  other 
singing  voices.  The  agony  within  her  was  great 
to  penetrate  the  consciousness  of  others  through 
this  fair  triumphant  mask. 

Madelon  looked  better  than  her  rival  that 
morning.  Dorothy  sat,  as  usual,  daintily  clad 
in  her  Sabbath  silks  and  swan's  -  downs,  with  a 
sweet  atmosphere  as  of  a  flower  around  her  ;  but 
her  delicate  color  had  faded,  and  her  blue  eyes 
looked  as  if  she  had  been  weeping  and  had  not 
slept.  She  never  glanced  once  at  Eugene  Haut- 
ville  up  in  the  singing-seats  ;  but  sometimes  he 
looked  at  her,  and  then  her  face  quivered  under 
his  eyes. 

That  noon  Lot  Gordon  sent  again  for  Madelon, 
but  this  time  she  refused  to  go.  "  Tell  him  I  am 
busy  and  can't  come/7  she  told  Margaret  Bean's 
husband,  who  had  brought  the  note.  The  old 
man  went  off,  muttering  over  her  message  to  him 
self  lest  he  forget  it.  She  heard  him  repeating 
it  in  a  childish  sing-song — "Tell  him  Fm  busy 
and  can't  come  ;  tell  him  I'm  busy  and  can't 
come  " — as  he  went  out  of  the  yard,  slanting  his 
old  body  before  the  south  wind.  The  wind  blew 
from  the  south  that  day  in  great  gusts  as  warm 
as  summer ;  the  air  was  full  of  the  sounds  of 
running  water,  of  sweet,  interrupted  tinkles  and 
sudden  gurgles  and  steady  outpourings  as  from 
a  thousand  pitchers.  The  snow  was  going  fast ; 


230  MADELON 

here  and  there  were  bare  patches  that  showed  a 
green  shimmer  across  the  wind.  Sometimes 
spring  comes  with  a  rush  to  New  England  on 
the  1st  of  April. 

That  afternoon  Madelon  went  to  meeting  and 
sang  again,  and  when  she  got  home  Margaret 
Bean  was  waiting  for  her,  sitting,  a  motionless, 
swaddled  figure,  beside  a  window.  The  Haut- 
villes  never  locked  their  doors  while  away  from 
home,  and  she  had  walked  in  and  waited  at  her 
ease  until  Madelon  should  return. 

Madelon  came  in  alone  ;  her  father,  Abner,  and 
Eugene  had  stopped  in  the  barn  to  look  after  the 
roan,  who  had  gone  somewhat  lame  in  one  foot, 
and  Louis  and  Kichard  had  lagged.  Margaret 
Bean  stood  up  when  Madelon  entered. 

"  You'd  better  come  over/'  said  she. 

"  Didn't  I  tell  your  husband  I  couldn't  ?"  re 
turned  Madelon,  harshly. 

"You'd  better,  I  guess." 

"I've  got  my  father's  and  brothers'  supper  to 
get,  and  other  things  to  see  to.  Tell  him  he 
must  leave  me  in  peace  to-day,  or  I'll  never 
come."  Madelon's  voice  rose  high  and  strident. 
She  unfastened  her  cloak  as  if  it  choked  her. 
Margaret  looked  at  her,  her  small  black  eyes  peer 
ing  out  wrathfully  from  her  swathing  woollens. 
She  was  as  much  wrapped  up  on  this  mild  day  as 
she  had  been  when  the  cold  was  intense.  A  cer 
tain  dogged  attitude  towards  the  weather  Marga- 


MADELOX  231 

ret  Bean  always  took.  On  Thanksgiving  Day  she 
donned  her  winter  garments ;  on  May  Day  she 
exchanged  them  for  her  summer  ones,  regardless 
of  the  temperature.  She  never  made  any  com 
promises  or  concessions.  She  sweltered  in  her 
full  regalia  of  wools  on  mild  spring  days  ;  she 
weathered  the  early  November  blasts  in  her  straw 
bonnet  and  silk  shawl,  without  an  extra  kerchief 
around  her  stiff  old  neck.  To-day  she  would  not 
loosen  her  wraps  as  she  sat  waiting  for  Madelon 
in  the  warm  room,  but  remained  all  securely 
pinned  and  tied  as  when  she  entered. 

However,  her  discomfort,  although  she  would 
not  yield  to  it,  aroused  her  temper.  "You'd 
better  come,"  said  she,  "  or  you'll  be  sorry." 

Madelon  made  no  reply. 

"He's  sick,"  said  Margaret  Bean  ;  "he's  took 
considerable  worse."  She  nodded  her  head  an 
grily  at  Madelon. 

"  Is  his  cough  worse  ?" 

f '  He  can  scarcely  sit  up,"  said  Margaret  Bean, 
with  severe  emphasis.  She  rose  up  stiffly,  as  if 
she  had  but  one  joint,  so  girt  about  was  she.  "  If 
a  woman's  going  to  marry  a  man,  I  calculate  it's 
her  place  to  go  to  him  when  he's  sick  and  wants 
her,"  she  added. 

"  Is  his  cough  worse  ?" 

"Ain't  his  cough  bad  all  the  time?  Well,  I'm 
going.  If  folks  'ain't  got  any  feelings,  they  'ain't. 
I've  got  to  make  some  porridge  for  him." 


232  MADELOX 

Madelon  opened  the  door  for  her.  "  I'll  come 
over  after  supper,"  said  she  ;  "you  can  tell  him 
so." 

After  supper  Madelon  went  over  to  Lot's  in 
the  early  twilight.  The  tinkles  and  gurgles  and 
plashes  of  water  came  mysteriously  from  all  sides 
through  the  dusk.  The  hill -sides  were  flowing 
with  shallow  cascades,  and  the  woods  were  thread 
ed  with  brooks.  The  wind  blew  strongly  as  ever 
from  the  south  ;  it  had  lost  the  warmth  of  the 
sun,  but  was  still  soft.  The  earth  was  full  of  a 
strange  commotion  and  stir — of  disorder  chang 
ing  into  order,  as  if  creation  had  come  again. 
It  might  have  been  the  very  birthnight  of  the 
spring.  Madelon,  as  she  hurried  along,  felt  that 
memory  of  old,  joyous  anticipation  which  en 
hances  melancholy  when  the  chance  of  realiza 
tion  is  over.  The  spring  might  come,  radiant  as 
ever,  with  its  fulfilment  of  love  for  flowers  and 
birds  and  all  living  things,  but  the  spring  would 
never  come  in  its  full  meaning,  with  its  old 
prophecies,  for  her  again. 

Just  before  she  reached  Lot's  home,  Burr 
passed  her  swiftly  with  a  muttered  "good-even 
ing."  He  was  on  his  way  to  Dorothy  Fair's. 

<e  Good  -  evening,"  Madelon  returned,  quite 
clearly. 

She  found  Lot  sitting  up,  but  she  could  see 
that  he  looked  worse  than  usual.  He  was  paler, 
and  there  was  an  odd,  nervous  contraction  about 


MABELON  233 

his  whole  face,  as  if  a  frown  of  anxiety  and  per 
plexity  had  extended. 

He  held  out  his  hand,  but  she  took  no  notice 
of  it. 

"  I  have  come/'  said  she  ;  "  what  is  it  ?" 

"Won't  you  shake  hands,  Madelon?" 

Madelon  held  out  her  hand,  with  her  face 
averted,  but  Lot  did  not  take  it,  after  all. 

"My  hand  is  too  cold,"  he  muttered;  "never 
mind — "  He  continued  to  look  at  her,  and  the 
anxious  lines  on  his  face  deepened. 

"Are  you  feeling  worse  than  usual?"  Madelon 
asked ;  and  a  little  kindness  came  into  her  voice, 
for  Lot  Gordon  looked  again  like  a  sick  child 
who  had  lost  his  way  in  the  world. 

Lot  shook  his  head,  with  his  wistful  eyes  still 
upon  her  face.  A  little  light -stand,  with  his 
medicines  and  a  candle,  stood  on  his  left.  Pres 
ently  he  reached  out  and  took  a  little  box  from  off 
it,  and  extended  it  to  Madelon.  She  shrank,  back. 

"Take  it,  Madelon." 

"No,  I  don't  want  it." 

"  Oh,  Madelon,  take  it  and  open  it  at  least,  and 
let  me  see  you." 

Madelon  took  the  box,  with  an  impatient  gest 
ure,  and  opened  it,  and  a  ring  set  with  a  great 
pearl  gleamed  on  its  red  velvet  cushion.  She 
closed  the  box  and  held  it  out  towards  Lot.  "I 
want  no  presents,  Lot,"  she  said,  but  almost 
gently. 


234  MADELOtf 

"  Oh,  Madelon,  keep  it  \" 

She  reached  across  him,  and  laid  the  little  box 
back  on  the  table. 

"  There's  another  ring  I've  got  for  you  you'll 
have  to  wear,  Madelon." 

"I  will  wear  what  I  must,  for  the  sake  of  my 
promise,  when  the  time  comes,  but  that  is  all  I 
will  do,"  returned  Madelon  ;  and  she  seemed  to 
feel,  as  she  spoke,  the  wedding-ring  close  around 
her  finger  like  a  snake. 

"  Can  nothing  I  can  give  you  please  you,  Made- 
Ion  ?" 

"  No,  Lot,"  she  said,  but  not  ungently.  She 
began  to  move  away. 

"  Madelon,"  said  Lot. 

"Well?"  Madelon  waited,  but  Lot  said  not 
another  word.  She  went  on  towards  the  door. 

"Madelon,"  he  whispered,  and  she  stopped 
again ;  but  this  time  also  there  was  a  long  si 
lence,  which  he  did  not  break. 

Madelon  opened  the  door,  and  his  piteous  cry 
came  for  the  third  time,  and  she  waited  on  the 
threshold ;  but  again  he  said  nothing  more. 

"  Good-night,"  said  she,  shortly,  and  was  out, 
and  the  door  shut.  Then  she  heard  a  cry  from 
him,  as  if  he  were  dying.  "  Madelon,  Madelon !" 

She  opened  the  door  with  a  jerk,  and  went 
back.  "  Lot,"  said  she,  sternly,  "  this  is  the  last 
time  I  will  come  back.  Once  for  all,  what  is  it 
you  want  of  me  ?" 


MADELOK  235 

Lot  looked  up  at  her,  his  face  working.  He 
strove  to  speak  and  could  not.  He  strove  again, 
and  his  voice  was  weak  and  gasping  as  if  the 
breath  of  life  had  almost  left  him.  "We — had 
better  not  be  married  —  to-morrow,"  he  said, 
with  his  piteous  eyes  upon  Madelon's  face. 

She  started,  and  stared  at  him  as  if  she  feared 
she  did  not  hear  rightly. 

"I — have  been — thinking  it  over,"  Lot  went 
on,  panting  ;  "  I  am  not  as  well — we  had  better 
wait — until — May.  My  cough — the  doctor — we 
will  wait — Madelon  I"  Lot's  broken  speech  end 
ed  in  a  pitiful  cry  of  her  name. 

"Why  do  you  do  this  ?"  she  asked,  looking  at 
him  with  her  white,  stern  face,  through  which 
an  expression  of  joy,  which  she  tried  to  keep 
back,  was  struggling. 

"I  am  not  as  well,  Madelon,"  Lot  answered, 
with  sudden  readiness  and  sad  dignity.  "If 
you  do  not  object  to  the  change  of  time  we  had 
best  defer  it." 

Madelon  looked  away.  "  There  is  no  need  of 
any  pretence  between  us,"  she  said  ;  "I  am  sorry 
you  are  not  as  well." 

"But  not  sorry  that  our  wedded  bliss  must  be 
deferred  ?" 

"  No,"  said  she.  .  Then  she  went  away,  and 
that  time  Lot  did  not  call  her  back.  She  heard 
him  coughing  hard  as  she  went  through  the 
entry. 


236  MADELON 

When  she  came  out  of  the  house  into  the  tu 
multuous  darkness  of  the  spring  night,  and  went 
down  the  road  with  the  south  wind  smiting  her\ 
with  broadsides  of  soft  air,  and  the  living  sounds 
of  water  ahead  and  on  either  hand  of  her.,  she 
was  happy — in  spite  of  Burr,  in  spite  of  every 
thing —  with  the  happiness  of  one  to  whom  is 
granted  a  respite  from  death. 


CHAPTER  XX 

the  mind  has  been  strained  up  and  held 
to  the  furthering  of  some  painful  end  and  then 
suddenly  released,  it  sinks  back  for  a  time,  alive 
to  nothing  but  the  consciousness  of  freedom  and 
rest.  Even  the  thought  for  the  future,  which  is 
its  one  weapon  against  fate,  is  laid  down.  Made- 
Ion,  for  a  few  days  after  the  postponement  of 
her  marriage,  went  about  in  a  kind  of  negative 
happiness.  There  are  few  who  have  so  much  to 
bear  that  there  is  not  left  to  them  at  least  the 
joy  of  escape  from  another  trial.  Madelon  had 
lost  her  lover  indeed,  but  she  was  let  loose  for  a 
while  from  a  worse  trouble  than  that. 

When  Madelon  entered  the  house  that  Sunday 
night  her  face  was  so  changed  that  it  held  her 
father's  and  her  brothers'  casual  glances.  Her 
cheeks  were  brilliant  with  the  damp  wind,  her 
eyes  gleaming,  her  mouth  half  smiling  as  she 
looked  around.  For  the  first  time  for  weeks  it 
seemed  to  Madelon  that  she  had  really  come 
home,  and  the  old  familiar  place  did  not  look 
strange  to  her  with  the  threatening  light  of  her 
own  future  over  it.  She  tossed  off  her  hood  and 


238  MADELON 

her  red  cloak,  and  proposed  with  her  old  manner 
that  they  have  some  music. 

The  men  looked  at  her  and  each  other.  "  She's 
a  woman/'  old  David  muttered  under  his  mus 
tache,  and  got  his  viol. 

Soon  the  grand  chorus  began,  and  Madelon 
sang  and  sang,  with  all  her  old  fervor.  The 
brothers  kept  glancing  at  her,  half  uneasily,  but 
David  wooed  his  viol  as  if  it  were  his  one  love  in 
the  world,  and  paid  no  attention  to  aught  besides. 

The  concert  lasted  late  that  night.  It  was 
midnight  before  they  stopped  singing  and  put 
their  stringed  instruments  away. 

Then  Madelon  turned  to  them  all.  "  I  am  not 
going  to  be  married  to-morrow/'  she  said,  and 
her  face  flushed  red.  "I  had  better  tell  you.  I 
am  not  going  to  be  married  for  a  month."  She 
strove  to  control  her  voice,  but  in  spite  of  her 
self  it  rang  exultantly  at  the  last. 

Louis  and  Richard  exchanged  one  look  with  a 
sudden  turn  of  white  faces.  David  stared  hard 
and  perplexedly  at  his  daughter.  "What's  that 
ye  say  ?"  he  asked,  after  a  second's  pause. 

' '  I  am  not  going  to  be  married  for  another 
month." 

"Why  not  ?" 

"  Lot  isn't  as  well  as  he  was." 

"What's  the  matter  ?     That  cut  he  got  ?" 

"  No,  I  guess  not.  I  think  it's  his  cough." 
Madelon  paled  and  shivered,  and  turned  away  as 


MADELON  239 

she  spoke,  for  the  horror  of  her  deed  and  the 
forced  pity  came  over  her  again. 

Her  father  caught  her  by  the  arm  as  she  would 
have  gone  out  of  the  room. 

"Look  ye  here,"  he  said,  "is  this  the  whole 
truth  of  it  ?  We've  got  a  right  to  know.  Be  ye 
going  to  marry  him  in  a  month's  time  ?" 

Madelon  looked  at  him  proudly.  "I  am  going 
to  marry  him  in  a  month's  time,  and  I  am  not 
afraid  to  face  all  the  truth  in  the  world.  Let 
me  go,  father." 

When  she  was  gone  the  father  and  sons  stood 
staring  at  one  another.  There  was  on  all  their 
faces  an  under  meaning  to  which  not  one  would 
give  tongue. 

Eichard  jostled  Louis's  shoulder.  "  Suppose — '' 
he  whispered,  looking  at  him  with  dismayed  and 
suspicious  eyes. 

"Hush  up!"  returned  Louis,  roughly,  and 
swung  across  to  the  shelf  for  his  candle. 

"  If  I  thought — "  began  David,  with  force ;  then 
stopped,  shaking  his  old  head.  The  male  Haut- 
villes  went  out,  one  after  the  other,  their  candles 
flaring  up  in  their  grimly  silent  faces.  They 
were  capable  of  concerted  action  without  speech, 
and  had  evolved  one  purpose  of  going  to  bed 
with  no  more  parley  about  Lot  Gordon  and 
Madelon  that  night.  Brave  as  these  men  were, 
not  one  of  them  dared  set  foot  squarely  upon 
the  dangerous  ground  which  two  of  them  knew, 


240  MADELON 

and  three  suspected,  and  look  another  in  the 
face  with  the  consciousness  of  his  whereabouts 
in  his  eyes. 

Truly  afraid  were  they  all,  with  that  subtle 
cowardice  which  lurks  sometimes  in  the  bravest 
souls,  of  one  another's  knowledge  and  suspicions, 
as  they  filed  up  the  creaking  wooden  stairs. 

Richard  looked  at  Louis  in  a  terrified  sidelong 
way  when  they  were  safe  in  their  room  with  the 
door  shut.  "Hush  up  !"  Louis  whispered  again, 
roughly,  as  if  Richard  had  spoken.  The  two 
brothers  were  not  to  sleep  much  that  night,  each 
being  tormented  by  anxiety  lest  Lot  Gordon  had 
resolved  to  stand  by  their  sister  no  longer,  and 
let  disgrace  fall  upon  her  head ;  but  neither 
would  speak. 

The  candles  flashed  athwart  the  dark  window- 
spaces  of  the  Hautville  chambers,  and  one  by  one 
went  out.  The  house  was  dark  and  still,  with 
all  the  sweet  voices  and  stringed  instruments  at 
rest.  Yet  so  full  of  sonorous  harmony  had  it 
been  not  long  since  that  one  might  well  fancy 
that  it  would  still,  to  an  attentive  ear,  reverber 
ate  with  sweet  sounds  in  all  its  hollows,  like  a 
shell. 

Madelon  slept  soundly  that  night,  and  when 
she  woke  on  the  morning  of  what  was  to  have 
been  her  wedding-day  felt  as  if  she  had  a  glimpse 
of  her  own  self  again,  after  a  long  dream  in  which 
she  had  been  changed  and  lost.  Richard  went 


MADELON  241 

early  to  tell  the  woman  who  had  been  engaged  to 
do  the  housework  that  she  need  not  come  for  a 
month.  After  breakfast  her  father  and  brothers 
all  went  away,  and  she  was  alone  in  the  house. 
She  went  about  her  work  singing  for  the  first 
time  for  weeks.  She  raised  her  voice  high  in  a 
gay  ditty  which  was  then  in  vogue,  entitled  "  The 
Knight  Errant": 

"It  was  Dennis  the  young  and  brave 

Was  bound  for  Palestine; 
But  first  he  made  his  orisons 
Before  Saint  Mary's  shrine. 

"  'And  grant,  immortal  Queen  of  Heaven,' 

Was  still  the  soldier's  prayer, 
'  That  I  may  prove  the  bravest  knight 
And  love  the  fairest  fair.'" 

So  sang  Madelon,  loud  and  sweet,  as  she  tidied 
the  kitchen.  There  were  four  verses,  and  she 
was  on  the  last  when  the  door  opened  stealthily 
and  her  granduncle,  old  Luke  Basset,  entered. 
Her  back  was  towards  him,  and  she  did  not  see 
or  hear  him. 

He  waited,  his  old  face  fixed  in  a  sly  grin, 
standing  unsteadily  on  his  shaking  old  legs,  and 
holding  to  the  back  of  a  chair  for  support,  until 
Madelon  sang  at  the  close  of  the  song, 

"And  honored  be  the  bravest  brave, 
Beloved  the  fairest  fair," 

16 


242  MADELON 

and  stopped.  Then  he  spoke.  "'Tain't  so,  then, 
I  s'pose,"  said  he,  and  his  voice  seemed  to  crack 
with  sly  suggestiveness. 

Madelon  faced  around  on  him.  "What  isn't 
so  ?"  she  asked,  coldly.  "  I  didn't  hear  you  come 
in." 

Old  Luke  Basset  shuffled  stiffly  to  the  hearth 
and  settled  into  David's  chair.  "Well,"  said  he, 
"  I  heerd  in  the  store  just  now  that  your  weddin' 
was  put  off,  but  I  s'pose  it  ain't  so,  'cause  you 
seem  to  be  in  sech  good  sperits.  A  gal  wouldn't 
be  singin'  if  her  weddin'  was  put  off." 

"Look  here,  Uncle  Luke,"  said  Madelon. 

"Well?" 

"  My  wedding  is  put  off  for  a  month  ;  now  that 
settles  it.  I  don't  want  to  say  another  word 
about  it."  Madelon  went  into  the  pantry. 

Luke  sent  his  old  voice,  shrill  and  penetrating 
as  a  baby's,  after  her.  "  They  say  'tain't  luck  to 
have  a  weddin'  put  off.  'Ain't  ye  afeard  he'll 
give  ye  the  slip  ?" 

Madelon  made  no  reply.  There  was  a  rattle  of 
dishes  in  the  pantry. 

Old  Luke  waited  a  moment;  then  raised  his 
shrill,  infantile  voice  again.  "  If  this  feller  gives 
ye  the  slip,  ye  can  jest  hang  up  yer  fiddle ;  ye 
won't  git  t'other  one  back.  Parson  Fair's  gal's 
got  'nough  fine  feathers  comin'  from  Boston  to 
fit  out  the  Queen  of  England,  they  say." 

Madelon  said  nothing. 


MADELOtf  243 

"  D'ye  hear  ?"  called  old  Luke  ;  but  he  got  no 
reply.  "Dexter  Beers  says  a  hull  passel  of  stuff 
come  up  from  Boston  on  the  stage  yesterday. 
Saturday/'  persisted  old  Luke,  "  Mis7  Beers  she 
see  an  eend  of  blue  satin  a-stickin'  out  of  one  of 
the  bundles." 

Old  Luke  waited  again,  with  sharp  eyes  on  the1 
pantry.  He  could  see  therein  a  fold  of  Madelon's 
indigo-blue  petticoat,  and  could  hear  the  click  of 
a  spoon  against  a  dish  ;  that  was  all. 

Old  Luke  tried  his  last  prod  of  aggravation. 
"Folks  air  sayin'  down  to  the  store  that  rnebbe 
there  was  some  truth,  arter  all,  in  what  you  said 
'bout  the  stabbin',  an'  mebbe  that's  the  reason 
Lot  is  a  puttin'  off  the  weddin',"  piped  old  Luke. 
He  chuckled  slyly  to  himself,  but  sobered  sud 
denly,  and  cowered  in  his  chair  before  Made- 
Ion. 

She  came  out  of  the  pantry  with  a  rush,  and 
stood  before  him,  her  eyes  blazing.  "  There  ivas 
truth  in  what  I  said,  after  all !"  she  cried.  "  The 
truth's  the  truth,  whether  there's  folks  to  believe 
it  or  not,  and  I  spoke  it,  and  you  can  tell  them  so 
at  the  store." 

Old  Luke  shrank  before  her.  His  old  body 
seemed  to  cease  to  shape  his  clothes.  He  looked 
up  at  her  with  scared  eyes. 

"And  the  reason  I  have  told  for  the  wedding 
being  postponed  is  the  truth,  too,"  continued 
Madelon.  "I  did  stab  Lot  Gordon,  and  he 


244  MADELON 

knows  I  did,,  though  he  won't  own  it,  and  he's 
bound  to  stab  me  back  my  whole  life.  And  we 
shall  be  married  in  a  month  fast  enough — you 
needn't  worry,  Uncle  Luke  Basset." 

Madelon  stood  over  the  old  man  a  minute, 
quivering  with  impatience  and  utterly  reckless 
anger  and  scorn,  and  he  shrank  before  her  with 
scared  eyes,  and  yet  a  lurking  of  his  malicious 
grin  about  his  mouth.  Then  she  made  a  con 
temptuous  gesture,  as  if  she  would  brush  him  out 
of  her  consciousness  altogether,  and  went  away 
out  of  the  room  without  another  word,  and  left 
him  alone. 

He  turned  his  head  slowly  and  looked  cautious 
ly  around  after  the  door  was  closed.  He  heard 
Madelon's  quick  tread  up  the  stairs.  "  Gorry  !" 
muttered  old  Luke  under  his  breath,  and  scowled 
reflectively  over  his  foxy  eyes.  Quite  convinced 
in  his  own  mind  was  old  Luke  Basset  that  his 
grandniece  had  spoken  the  truth,  and  had 
wounded  Lot  Gordon  almost  to  death,  and  quite 
resolute  was  he  also  that  he  would,  since  she  was 
his  own  kin,  contend  against  the  carping  tongues 
of  the  village  gossips  with  all  the  cunning  in 
him. 

Old  Luke  waited  for  some  time.  Then  he  got 
up  stiffly  and  shuffled  out  on  his  tottering  legs, 
scraping  his  feet  for  purchase  on  the  floor,  like 
some  old  claw-footed  animal. 

Out  in  the  entry  he  paused  a  moment,  with  his 


MADELON  245 

head  cocked  shrewdly  and  warily  towards  the 
stairs.  "  Hey  \"  he  called,  but  got  no  response, 
lie  opened  the  outer  door,  and,  all  ready  to  be 
gone  should  his  niece  appear,  he  called  shrilly  up 
the  stairs,  "  Hey,  Mad'lon — forgot  to  tell  ye.  Mis' 
Beers  she  said  she  see  a  bandbox  'mongst  them 
things  that  come  for  the  parson's  gal ;  said  'twas 
most  big  'nough  to  hold  the  bride,  and  she 
guessed  'twas  the  weddin'-bunnit." 

Not  a  sound  from  above  heard  old  Luke,  and 
presently  he  gave  it  up  and  went  out  and  down 
the  road  to  the  village,  with  occasional  glances  of 
a  crafty  old  eye  over  his  shoulder  at  Madelon's 
chamber  window.  Madelon  had  heard  every 
word.  She  was  folding  up  her  own  wedding-silk 
and  putting  it  away  in  the  cedar  chest  until  she 
should  want  it.  She  put  away  her  wedding-bon 
net  also,  with  its  cream-colored  plumes  and  its 
linings  and  strings  of  yellow  satin,  in  the  band' 
box. 

She  set  her  mouth  hard,  and  coupled  bitterly 
her  own  poor  wedding-finery  with  Dorothy  Fair's 
grand  outfit ;  and  yet  not  for  the  reason  that  her 
Uncle  Luke  had  striven  to  give  her,  for  she 
would  have  held  an  old  ragged  blanket  of  one  of 
her  Indian  grandmothers  like  the  bridal  gown  of 
a  queen  had  Burr  been  her  bridegroom. 

Madelon  heard  the  door  shut,  and  knew  her 
tormentor  was  gone  ;  and  after  her  fine  attire  was 
packed  away  she  went  down -stairs  and  about 


246  MADELON 

her  tasks  again.  But  she  sang  no  more.  The 
certainty  of  the  future  overcame  her  like  the 
present,  and  her  short-lived  joy  or  respite  was 
all  gone.  When  her  father  and  brothers  came 
home  at  noon  they  found  the  old  stern  quiet  in 
her  face,  and  their  suspicions  that  there  had 
been  a  rupture  with  Lot  ceased.  They  were  re 
lieved,  but  the  boy  Richard  eyed  her  with  fur 
tive  pity.  That  night  he  lingered  behind  the 
others  when  they  dispersed  for  the  night,  and 
went  up  to  Madelon  and  threw  an  arm  around 
her,  and  laid  his  cheek  against  hers.  "  Oh, 
Madelon,  I  wish — "  he  began,  and  then  he  caught 
his  breath,  and  his  cheek  against  hers  was  wet, 
and  Madelon  turned  and  comforted  him,  as  a 
woman  will  turn  and  comfort  a  man  for  even  his 
pity  for  her  sorrow. 

"There  is  no  need  for  you  to  fret,"  she  said, 
with  a  sort  of  gentle  authority,  as  if  she  had 
been  his  mother.  "I've  got  my  life  to  live,  and 
IVe  got  strength  enough  to  live  it.  I  shall  do 
well  enough." 

Then  she  put  him  away  from  her  softly,  and 
went  about  setting  bread  to  rise.  But  he  fol 
lowed  beseechingly  at  her  heels,  with  a  little 
parcel  which  he  had  been  hiding  in  a  corner 
of  the  dresser.  "  I  bought  these  for  you,  with 
some  of  my  trap  money,  for  a  little  present,"  the 
boy  whispered,  piteously;  and  Madelon  smiled 
at  him  and  took  the  parcel  and  opened  it,  and 


MADELON  247 

found  therein  a  pair  of  fine  red -satin  shoes. 
Then  he  brightened  at  the  delight  which  she 
showed,  and  went  up-stairs  to  bed,  feeling  that 
after  all  it  would  be  no  such  hard  task  for 
his  sister  to  marry  Lot  Gordon,  and  cover  her 
fault  of  mad  temper  and  her  disgrace.  "He 
likes  her  so  much  he  will  treat  her  kindly,  and 
she  will  have  a  fine  house,  and  plenty  of  silk 
gowns,  and  feathers  in  her  bonnets,"  reflected 
Richard,  comfortably,  with  no  more  conscious 
ness  of  his  sister's  outlook  upon  life  than  if  his 
eyes  were  turned  towards  a  scene  in  another 
world.  Still  he  loved  his  sister  with  all  his 
heart,  although  he  never  in  his  life  had  seen  any 
thing  just  as  she  saw  it.  He  did  not  dream  that 
Madelon's  calm  broke  before  his  red-satin  shoes, 
and  that  she  was  sitting  alone  before  the  kitchen 
fire  with  them  in  her  lap,  weeping  bitterly.  She 
was  made  of  stern  stuff  to  endure  the  worst  of 
things ;  but,  after  all,  the  pitiful  little  accessories 
of  grief  and  death  are  harder  to  bear  without 
weakening,  because  all  one's  powers  of  defence 
are  not  enlisted  against  them.  They  are  some 
times  the  scouts  that  kill. 

Poor  Madelon  looked  at  her  brother's  wedding- 
gift,  the  little  red-satin  shoes,  in  which  she  could 

O  ' 

never  walk  or  dance  with  a  merry  heart,  and  her 
courage  almost  failed  her.  But  it  was  only  for  a 
little  while.  She  rose  up  and  finished  setting 
the  bread  to  rise,  and  then  she  went  to  her  cham- 


248  MADELON 

ber  and  packed  away  the  shoes  with  the  other 
things  in  the  cedar  chest. 

Through  the  days  that  came  now  Madelon 
toiled  as  she  had  never  toiled  before,  although 
she  had  always  been  an  industrious  girl.  She 
had  her  own  linen-chest,  which  she  would  take 
with  her  when  she  married,  and  now  she  be 
stirred  herself  to  replenish  the  stores  of  the 
house  she  would  leave,  for  the  comfort  of  her 
father  and  brothers.  Long  before  dawn  the  gen 
tle  hum  of  her  spinning-wheel  began,  although 
the  days  were  lengthening,  and  many  a  time  she 
sat  plying  it  on  her  solitary  hearth  until  after 
midnight.  She  spent  days  at  the  great  loom  in 
the  north  chamber,  marching  back  and  forth  be 
fore  it,  a  straight,  resolute  figure  of  industry  fill 
ing  human  needs,  although  with  sweat  of  the 
brow  and  heart's  blood.  No  happier  was  she  for 
her  hard  toil,  but  it  kept  at  least  the  spirit  of 
fierce  endurance  alive  within  her,  for  no  one 
succumbs  entirely  to  misery  with  unfolded 
hands.  Then,  too,  she  was  upheld  somewhat  by 
her  pride  in  right-doing  and  providing  for  the 
interests  of  her  family.  Enough  of  the  New 
England  conscience  she  had  to  give  her  a  certain 
comfort  in  holding  herself  to  duty,  like  a  knife 
to  a  grindstone. 

The  third  week  of  April  had  begun  when  one 
morning  Dorothy  Fair  came  to  the  door.  Made- 
Ion  was  out  in  the  field  beside  the  house,  laying 


MADELON  249 

some  lengths  of  cloth  on  the  green  sunny  levels 
to  whiten.  The  grass  had  turned  quite  green  in 
places,  and  the  sun  was  hot  as  midsummer.  The 
buds  on  the  trees  opened  before  one's  eyes,  as  if 
unfolded  by  warm  fingers.  People  walked  lan 
guidly,  for  the  humid  heat  served  to  force 
nothing  to  life  in  them  but  dreams;  but  the 
birds  lived  on  their  wings  and  called  out  of  all 
the  distances. 

Madelon,  standing  up  from  spreading  her 
linen,  caught  sight  of  the  swing  of  a  blue  petti 
coat,  like  the  swing  of  a  blue  flower,  beside  the 
house  door,  and  went  towards  it  directly. 

But  when  she  reached  the  house  the  blue-clad 
visitor  had  disappeared  within.  Madelon  en 
tered  and  found  Dorothy  Fair  in  the  north  par 
lor.  Eugene  had  been  sitting  in  there  with  his 
Shakespeare  book,  and  he  had  opened  the  door, 
bowing  and  wishing  her  good-day,  with  his 
courtly  grace  of  manner,  although  his  handsome 
face  was  pale. 

Dorothy  was  pale,  also,  under  her  blue-rib 
boned  bonnet.  She  courtesied  on  trembling 
knees,  and  spoke  like  a  scared  child,  in  spite  of 
her  training  and  genteel  deportment.  "  Can  I 
see  your  sister  ?"  she  said,  in  a  half-whisper,  and 
she  did  not  raise  her  blue  eyes  to  Eugene's  face. 

Eugene  looked  past  her.  "  I  see  her  coming 
now  across  the  field,"  he  said;  "she  has  seen 
you  and  will  be  here  presently." 


250  MADELON 

Then  he  bade  her  enter,  and  made  way  for  her, 
like  a  courtier  for  a  princess,  and  seated  her  in 
the  north  parlor  in  the  best  rocking-chair,  as  if  it 
were  a  throne.  Then  he  sat  down  opposite  her, 
with  his  Shakespeare  book  still  on  his  knees. 
That  morning  he  had  been  poring  over  "  Romeo 
and  Juliet.'7  His  imagination  was  afire  with  the 
sweet  ardor  of  that  other  lover,  and  he  would 
gladly  have  identified  Dorothy,  as  she  sat  there, 
with  Juliet ;  and  so  he  adored  her  doubly. 

Yet  he  saw  only  the  tip  of  her  little  shoe  below 
the  blue  hem  of  her  gown,  and  dared  not  fairly 
glance  at  her  face,  although  he  bore  himself  with 
such  calm  ease  that  none  could  have  suspected. 

"  It  is  a  beautiful  day,"  said  Eugene. 

"Yes,"  whispered  Dorothy.  Somehow  for  the 
moment  Eugene  forgot  Dorothy's  marriage,  and 
Burr  and  his  bitter  jealousy,  for  suddenly  a 
strange  and  unwarrantable  sense  of  possession 
came  over  him.  He  looked  fully  at  Dorothy, 
and  scanned  her  drooping  face,  and  smiled,  and 
then  Madelon  came  in. 

Dorothy  arose  at  once  and  greeted  her  with 
more  of  her  usual  manner.  Then  she  fumbled 
uneasily  with  a  little  parcel  she  held,  and  glanced 
at  Eugene,  and  then  at  Madelon.  "  I  had  an  er 
rand — "  began  Dorothy  and  stopped,  and  then 
Eugene  said  softly,  still  smiling,  "  I  see  you  have 
some  weighty  matter  to  discuss/'  and  bowed  him 
self  out  with  his  Shakespeare  book. 


MADELOX  251 

Then  Dorothy,  all  trembling,  and  before  he 
was  fairly  out  of  hearing  across  the  entry  in  the 
other  room,  announced  her  errand.  She  had 
come  to  beg  Madelon,  whose  rare  skill  in  em 
broidering  her  own  floral  designs  was  celebrated 
in  the  village,  to  work  for  her  the  front  breadth 
of  one  of  her  silken  gowns  with  a  garland  of  red 
roses.  "I  can  work  only  from  patterns  which 
are  marked  out,"  said  Dorothy ;  and  then  she 
held  up  a  shining  length  of  green  silk  upon 
which  the  garland  already  bloomed  in  her  pretty 
feminine  fancy.  "  I  will  pay  you  whatever  you 
ask,"  said  Dorothy,  further.  Then  she  started  and 
shrank,  for  Madelon  looked  at  her  with  such  wrath 
and  pride  in  her  black  eyes  that  she  was  frightened. 

"  What — have — I — done  ?"  she  faltered,  pite- 
ously.  And  it  was  quite  true  that  she  did  not 
know  what  she  had  done,  for  she  reasoned  always 
like  a  child,  with  premises  of  acts  only  and  not 
of  motives.  She  considered  simply  that  Madelon 
had  urged  her  to  be  true  to  Burr,  and  was  her 
self  to  marry  another  man,  and  therefore  could 
not  be  jealous,  and  that  she  wanted  her  gown 
embroidered. 

Dorothy  was  not  happy,  and  a  nervous  terror 
was  always  upon  her  which  had  caused  her  blue 
eyes  to  look  out  wistfully  from  delicate  hollows 
and  faded  the  soft  pink  on  her  cheeks  ;  still  she 
kept  involuntarily  to  her  feminine  ways,  and 
wanted  her  gowns  embroidered. 


252  MADELON 

"  I  want  no  pay  !''  Madelon  cried,  hoarsely. 

"  I  meant  no  harm/"  Dorothy  faltered,  again. 
She  remembered  that  Madelon  Hautville  had  on 
divers  occasions,  for  prospective  brides,  turned 
her  marvellous  skill  in  embroidery  to  financial 
profit,  but  she  dared  not  say  so  for  an  excuse. 
"'  I  could  not  do  it  myself,"  Dorothy  said,  fur 
ther,  trembling  in  every  limb,  "  and — I  thought 
maybe — you — " 

Suddenly  Madelon  extended  her  hand.  "  Give 
me  this  silk/'  she  said  ;  "  I  will  work  the  flowers 
on  it  for  you,  but  never  dare  to  speak  to  me  of 
pay,  Dorothy  Fair." 

Dorothy  looked  at  her,  made  a  motion  as  to 
give  her  the  silk,  then  drew  it  back  again. 

"  Give  me  the  silk,"  said  Madelon.  Dorothy 
yielded  up  the  silk  hesitatingly,  with  a  scared 
and  apologetic  murmur.  Then  she  screamed 
faintly,  for  Eugene  Hautville  strode  back  into 
the  room  with  a  look  on  his  face  which  she  had 
never  seen  before.  He  snatched  the  silk  out  of 
Madelon's  hand  and  thrust  it  roughly. into  Doro 
thy's. 

"  Take  it  home/7  he  said.  "  My  sister  does  no 
Avork  on  your  wedding-clothes  I" 

Dorothy  gasped  and  looked  at  him  with  wild 
terror  in  her  blue  eyes,  and  then  he  caught  her 
in  his  arms,  pressed  her  yellow  head  against 
his  breast,  and  stroked  it  softly.  "  Don't  be 
afraid/'  he  said — and  his  voice  had  its  wonderful 


MADELOK  253 

gentle  charm  again.  "  Don't  be  afraid,  dear 
child  !  I  could  not  harm  yon  if  I  tried — not  a 
hard  word  shall  be  said  to  you,  sweet !" 

"Eugene!"  cried  Madelon,  and  her  voice 
seemed  to  carry  wrath  like  a  trumpet.  She  laid 
hold  of  his  shoulders,  and  forced  him  back,  and 
Dorothy  slipped  out  of  his  arms  and  stood  aside, 
trembling  and  weeping,  Avith  a  little  worked  apron 
which  she  wore  thrown  over  her  face.  "  Let  me 
be  !"  Eugene  cried,  angrily,  and  would  have  gone 
to  Dorothy  again  to  comfort  her,  but  Madelon 
in  her  wrath  was  as  strong  as  he,  and  she  thrust 
herself  between  them. 

"You  are  no  brother  of  mine,  Eugene  Haut- 
ville,"  she  said,  her  face  all  white  and  fierce  with 
anger.  "You  dare  to  touch  her  again,  and  you 
will  find  out  that  I  can  fight  to  keep  her  from 
you  as  well  as  Burr  could  if  he  were  here.  You 
dare  to  touch  her  again !"  Then  she  turned  to 
Dorothy.  "  Give  me  the  silk,"  she  said,  in  a  hard 
voice.  In  her  heart  she  blamed  her  more  than 
her  brother,  although  unnecessarily. 

Dorothy  shrank  back.  "  No,"  she  said,  feebly, 
"I  had  better  not." 

"  Give  me  the  silk  !" 

Dorothy  gave  her  the  silk.  Eugene  stood  apart. 
He  possessed  his  fine  pride  and  graceful  self -poise 
again,  and  though  his  blood  boiled  he  would  not, 
being. a  man,  wrestle  with  his  sister  for  another 
man's  bride. 


254  MADBLON 

Dorothy  moved  towards  the  door,  her  fair  curls 
drooping  over  her  agitated  face.  Eugene  made  a 
motion  in  her  direction,,  and  when  Madelon  would 
have  thrust  him  hack  again,  he  only  said,  with 
a  half-smile,  "I  would  crave  the  lady's  pardon; 
you  would  not  prevent  that."  And  then  he  bowed 
low  before  Dorothy  Fair,  and  besought  her  to 
pardon,  if  she  could,  his  unseemly  conduct,  and 
believe  that  it  had  for  motive  only  the  highest 
respect  and  esteem  for  her. 

And  Dorothy  swept  her  curls  farther  over  her 
face,  and  could  not  make  the  dignified  response 
of  oifended  maidenhood  that  she  should,  but 
courtesied  tremblingly  and  fairly  fled  out  of  the 
house. 

Eugene,  with  his  Shakespeare  book  under  his 
arm,  went  also  out  of  the  house  and  over  across 
the  field,  to  a  piney  wood  he  loved,  where  all  the 
trees,  even  in  this  warm  flush  of  spring,  whispered 
eternally  of  winter  and  the  north,  and  there  he 
stretched  himself  out  beneath  a  tree,  as  melan 
choly  as  Jacques  in  the  forest  of  Arden.  Now 
that  he  had  got  the  better  of  his  impulse  of  mad 
passion  and  jealousy,  he  was  ashamed,  and  stayed 
late  in  the  wood,  for  he  did  not  like  to  meet  his 
sister's  rightly  scornful  face. 

When  he  went  at  last  late  for  his  supper,  Made- 
Ion,  as  he  expected,  noticed  him  only  by  an  angry 
flash  of  her  black  eyes,  under  drooping  lids.  She 
said  not  one  word  to  him,  and  as  the  days  went 


MADELO^  255 

on  treated  him  coldly  ;  and  yet  she  did  not  give 
to  the  matter  its  full  seriousness  of  meaning. 

Madelon,  well  acquainted  with  Eugene's  caress 
ing  manner,  thought  simply  that,  seeing  poor 
Dorothy's  alarm,  he  had  striven  to  soothe  her 
with  endearments  and  assurance  that  he  would 
not  hurt  her,  as  he  would  have  done  with  a  child. 
As  for  Dorothy,  Madelon  credited  her  with  the 
soft  spirit  which  she  knew  she  possessed.  She 
scorned  them  both,  and  felt  as  jealous  for  Burr's 
sake  as  he  himself  could  have  done,  that  other 
hands  than  his  had  touched  his  bride's  ;  and  yet 
she  did  not  dream  of  the  full  significance  of  it 
all. 

She  wrought  a  marvellous  garland  of  red  roses 
on  Dorothy  Fair's  green  silk,  and  scarcely  left 
herself  time  to  sleep  that  she  might  complete 
that  and  her  stint  of  household  linen.  She  had 
nothing  to  add  to  her  own  wedding-garments. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE  weeks  went  past,,  and  the  Sunday  before 
the  day  set  for  her  wedding  came  again.  She 
had  seen  Lot  but  three  times  in  the  interval. 
He  had  sent  for  her,  and  she  had  gone  obe 
diently,  and  remained  a  short  time,  pleading  her 
work  as  an  excuse  to  return  home.  Lot  had  not 
sought  to  detain  her;  he  had  vexed  her  with 
no  vain  appeals,  but  treated  her  with  a  sort 
of  sad  deference  which  would  have  perplexed 
her  had  she  cared  enough  for  him  to  dwell 
upon  it. 

Lot  was  said  to  be  in  no  better  health.  He 
did  not  stir  abroad  on  those  warm  spring  days. 
Once  he  had  put  on  his  great-coat,  and  was  for 
setting  foot  on  the  springing  grass  in  the  sunny 
yard,  but  Margaret  Bean  had  remarked  to  him 
how  she  had  heard,  whilst  purchasing  a  bit  of 
cheese  in  the  store,  a  man  say  that  he  guessed 
Lot  Gordon  wasn't  much  worse,  only  afraid  of  a 
wife  that  could  use  a  knife.  Margaret  Bean  had 
shaken  in  her  starched  petticoats  as  she  said  it, 
not  knowing  how  the  news  might  affect  her 
master  towards  the  monger  of  it ;  but  she  was 


MADELON  257 

disposed  to  risk  a  little  rather  than  have  a  mis 
tress  over  her. 

Lot  said  nothing  in  response  about  the  mat 
ter,  but  pulled  off  his  great-coat  and  sank  into 
his  chair  with  a  fit  of  coughing,  and  declared 
he  felt  not  well  enough  to  go  out  that  day. 

That  last  Sunday  Madelon  went  to  him  with 
out  being  summoned,  in  the  early  evening  after 
supper.  On  her  last  visit,  the  week  before, 
he  had  asked  her,  and  she  had  promised  to 
come. 

The  frogs  were  calling  across  the  meadows  as 
she  went  along ;  there  was  a  young  moon  shin 
ing  with  frequent  silvery  glances  through  the 
budding  trees,  which  tossed  athwart  it  like  foam, 
and  the  mists  curled  along  the  horizon  distances. 
Madelon,  moving  along,  was  as  the  ghost  of  one 
who  had  belonged  to  the  spring,  as  a  part  of  its 
radiant  hope  and  stir  of  life  and  youth  in  days 
past,  but  was  now  done  with  it  forever.  The 
spring  sounds  and  sights,  and  all  its  sweet  in 
fluence,  seemed  to  tear  her  heart  anew  with 
memories  of  the  visions  of  fair  futures  which 
she  had  forfeited.  The  loss  of  the  sweet  dreams 
which  the  spring  awakens  in  the  human  heart  is 
not  one  of  the  least  losses  of  life.  Though  the 
spring  be  unfulfilled,  it  sweetens  the  year. 

Just  before  Madelon  reached  Lot  Gordon's 
house,  she  met  Burr  going  to  court  Dorothy. 
They  were  to  be  married  in  two  weeks  more. 

17 


258  MADELON 

Madelon  and  Burr  exchanged  a  murmur  of  salu 
tations  and  passed  each  other. 

Madelon  went  directly  into  Lot's  house,  to  his 
sitting-room,  as  she  was  used  to  do  lately,  and 
found  Lot  standing  in  the  midst  of  the  room, 
waiting  for  her,  with  a  lighted  candle  in  his 
hand. 

"  I  heard  your  footstep  when  you  came  through 
that  open  space,  where  the  road  has  a  hollow 
echo,"  he  said;  "and  I  have  been  waiting  for 
you  ever  since." 

"You  could  not  hear  me;  it  is  a  half-mile 
away,"  said  Madelon. 

"A  half-mile  !  what's  a  hundred  miles  when 
'tis  the  heart  that  listens,  and  not  the  ears  ? 
Come;  I  have  something  I  want  to  show  you." 

Lot  led  the  way  and  Madelon  followed  out  of 
the  room  across  the  front  entry,  with  its  spiral 
of  stair  mounting  its  landscape-papered  height, 
and  Lot  opened  the  door  of  the  opposite  room, 
the  great  north  parlor.  "Wait  here  a  minute," 
he  said  to  Madelon,  and  she  waited  in  the  entry 
after  he  entered  until  he  called  her  to  follow. 

Lot  had  lighted  every  candle  in  the  great 
branching  candelabra  upon  the  shelf,  and  the 
room  was  full  of  light.  Madelon  looked  about 
her,  and  even  her  despairing  calm  was  stirred  a 
little.  Never  had  she  seen  or  dreamed  of  a  room 
like  this.  She  grasped  no  details ;  her  bewildered 
eyes  saw  them  all  melting  into  each  other,  com- 


MADELON  259 

bining  newly  and  vanishing  like  kaleidoscopic 
pictures — folds  and  gleaming  stretches  of  crim 
son  damask  and  velvet,  the  dark  polish  of  pre 
cious  woods,  spots  and  arabesques  of  gold  and 
the  satin  shimmer  of  wall-paper,  lights  and 
shades  of  steel  engravings,  and  elegant  and  grace 
ful  lady-treasures  of  gilded  books  and  work-boxes 
and  vases  on  shelf  and  tables.  There  was  even 
a  little  piano,  the  only  one  in  the  village,  with 
slender,  fluted  legs,  and  a  mother-of-pearl  garland 
over  the  key-board. 

"  I  have  had  this  all  newly  furnished  for  you.  I 
hope  it  may  please  you/7  said  Lot ;  and  he  looked 
at  Madelon  with  hollow,  wistful  eyes. 

That  brought  her  to  herself.  "  It  is  very  pret 
ty,"  she  replied,  and  turned  away. 

Lot  sighed.  "Well,  I  have  something  more 
to  show  you/7  said  he,  and  went  forlornly  before 
her,  stooping  weakly  and  coughing  now  and 
then,  into  the  great  middle  room  of  the  house, 
which  was  fitted  up  with  carven  oak  which  Gov 
ernor  Winthrop  might  have  used.  Here,  too, 
Lot  lighted  all  the  branches  of  the  candelabra 
on  the  shelf;  and  the  great  buffet  directly  re 
sponded  with  the  dazzling  white  glitter  of  sil 
ver  from  the  cream- jugs  and  ewers  and  spoons 
thereon. 

Then  Lot  threw  open  the  fine  carved  doors  of 
the  cupboard,  and  the  shelves  were  covered  with 
precious  blue  china,  brought  from  over  seas,  and 


260  MADELOK 

wine-glasses  like  bubbles  of  crystal,  and  decan 
ters  as  graceful  as  plumes. 

"Do  you  like  it,  Madelon?"  Lot  asked;  and 
Madelon  replied,  as  before,  that  it  was  pretty. 

Lot  showed  Madelon  all  the  wealth  of  his 
house  before  they  returned  to  the  sitting-room. 
Much  had  been  there  from  his  father's  day,  but 
much  had  been  added  to  please  this  bride,  who 
looked  at  it  more  coldly  and  with  less  part  in  it 
than  she  would  have  looked  at  the  treasures  in  a 
merchant's  windows.  She  saw,  unmoved  by  any 
pride  of  possession,  great  canopied  bedsteads, 
and  chests  of  drawers  whose  carven  tops  reached 
the  ceiling,  and  mirrors  in  gilded  frames.  She 
saw  marvellous  stores  of  linen  damask  napery  in 
such  delicate  and  graceful  designs,  from  foreign 
looms,  as  she  had  never  dreamed.  She  saw  an 
India  shawl,  and  lengths  of  silk  and  satin  and 
velvet,  and  turned  away  from  it  all  to  the  obsti 
nate  contemplation  and  endurance  of  her  own 
misery. 

At  last  Lot  led  the  way  back  to  the  sitting- 
room.  He  set  the  candle  on  the  shelf,  and  gave 
a  strange,  beseeching  glance  around  the  room  at 
his-  books.  It  was  as  if  he  besought,  with  the 
irrationality  of  grief,  those  only  friends  he  fairly 
knew  for  help  and  sympathy. 

Then  he  turned  to  Madelon  and  laid  a  hand 
on  each  of  her  shoulders,  and  looked  at  her. 
"No,  there  is  no  need  now,"  he  said,  when  she 


MADELON  261 

would  have  shrunk  away  from  him;  and  some 
thing  in  his  voice  hushed  her,  and  she  stood 
still. 

"Madelon,"  said  Lot  Gordon,  "tell  me  true, 
as  before  God.  You  are  a  woman,  and  always, 
I  have  heard,  a  woman  takes  comfort  and  pleasure 
in  life  with  such  gear  as  I  have  shown  you,  alone, 
even  if  she  has  little  else.  Would  not  all  this 
give  you  some  little  happiness,  even  as  my  wife, 
Madelon?" 

Madelon  looked  at  Lot  and  hesitated.  She  had 
a  feeling  that  her  word  of  reply  would  stab  him 
more  cruelly  than  her  knife  had  done. 

"  Madelon,  tell  me  !" 

"  Will  you  have  the  truth  ?" 

Lot  nodded. 

"No,  Lot." 

"Madelon,  I  can  buy  you  more  than  all  this. 
Are  you  sure  ?" 

"'Yes." 

Lot  gave  a  great  sigh.  "  Dearly  bought  posses 
sions  are  worse  than  poverty,  you  hold,"  said  he. 
"  Then,  Madelon,  there  is  no  sweetening  in  all 
this  for  your  bondage?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "  I  shall  do  my  duty,  as 
I  have  promised,"  she  said.  "  All  this  is  useless. 
Let  me  go,  Lot." 

"Madelon!" 

She  looked  up  in  his  face,  and  a  strange  awe 
came  over  her  at  the  look  in  it.  A  more  secret 


202  MADELON 

lurking-place  than  any  of  the  little  wild  things 
that  he  loved  to  discover  had  the  self  in  Lot 
Gordon,,  and  Madelon  saw  it  for  the  first  time, 
and  perhaps  he,  also. 

"  True  love  exists  not  unless  it  can  do  away 
with  the  desire  of  possession.  I  love  you,  Made- 
Ion,"  said  Lot ;  and  then  he  let  go  of  her  shoul 
ders  and  went  over  to  the  mantel -shelf,  and 
leaned  against  it,  with  his  head  bent. 

Madelon,  all  bewildered  and  trembling,  stared 
at  him. 

"I — don't  think  I  know  what  you  mean,"  she 
gasped  out,  finally. 

"  You  are — free,"  said  Lot. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THAT  year,  spring  seemed  to  break  over  the 
village  in  a  day,  like  a  green  flood.  All  at  once 
people's  thoughts  were  interrupted,  and  their  eyes 
turned  from  selfish  joys  or  pains  by  the  emerald 
flash  of  fields  and  hill-sides  in  the  morning  sun, 
and  the  white  flutter  of  flowering  boughs  past 
their  windows  like  the  festal  garments  of  un 
expected  guests. 

The  first  week  in  May,  the  cherry-trees  were  in 
blossom,  and  the  alders  and  shad  bushes  were 
white  in  the  borders  of  the  woods  against  the 
filmy  green  of  the  birches.  The  young  women 
got  out  their  summer  muslins,  and  trimmed  their 
bonnets  anew ;  their  faces,  all  unknown  to  them 
selves,  took  on  a  new  meaning  of  the  spring,  like 
new  flowers,  and  the  young  men  looked  after 
them  as  they  passed  as  if  they  were  strangers  in 
the  village. 

On  the  afternoon  of  Wednesday,  in  the  first 
week  of  May,  Eugene  Hautville  strolled  across- 
lots  over  to  the  village.  Through  the  fields 
north  of  the  Hautville  place  there  was  an  old 
foot-path  to  the  former  site  of  an  old  homestead, 


264  MADELON 

long  ago  burned  to  the  ground  and  its  ashes  dis 
sipated  on  winds  long  died  away.  The  oldest 
inhabitants  in  the  village  barely  remembered  the 
house  that  used  to  stand  there.  The  slant  of  its 
roof  crossed  their  minds  dimly  when  they  spoke 
of  it :  they  could  not  agree  as  to  whether  it  had 
faced  north  or  south.  It  might  have  seemed  al 
most  fabulous,  had  it  not  been  for  the  thicket 
of  old  lilacs  purpling  with  bloom  every  spring, 
which  had  first  grown  before  its  windows,  and  the 
perennial  houseleek  which  had  clustered  round 
the  door. 

Then,  too,  east  of  where  the  house  had  stood 
there  was  an  old  apple  orchard,  the  trees  thereof 
bent  to  the  ground  like  distorted  old  men,  and, 
when  spring  came,  bearing  scarcely  one  bough 
of  pink  bloom,  among  others  shaggy  with  gray 
moss  like  the  beard  of  age. 

Then,  also,  the  lane  still  remained  which  had 
stretched,  in  days  gone  by,  from  the  northward 
of  the  old  house  to  the  highway.  The  lane  had 
divided  the  fields  of  the  old  landowners,  and  had 
been  the  thoroughfare  for  the  dwellers  in  the 
house  when  they  went  to  meeting  and  to  mill. 

The  Hautvilles  often  used  it  in  the  summer 
time  for  a  short-cut  to  the  village.  Eugene  went 
along  this  foot-path,  which  was  in  its  way  a  little 
humble  track  of  history  of  simple  village  life, 
passed  the  site  of  the  house,  and  then  struck  into 
the  lane.  It  stretched  before  him  liko  a  shaft 


MADELON  265 

of  green  light.  The  afternoon  sun  shone  through 
young  willow-leaves,  transparent  like  green  glass. 
Low  overhead  hung  rosy  tassels  from  out-reach 
ing  boughs  of  maples.  Between  the  trees,  the 
flowering  alders  seemed  gleaming  out  of  sight 
before  him  like  the  white  skirts  of  maidens.  Here 
and  there  the  ground  was  blue  with  violets. 
Eugene  picked  some  half  mechanically,  as  he 
went  along,  and  made  a  little  nosegay,  with  some 
sprigs  of  alder.  He  was  half  through  the  lane, 
and  had  just  emerged  from  a  clump  of  alders, 
when  he  saw  Dorothy  Fair  coming.  She  gave  a 
start  when  she  saw  him  appear  with  a  great  jost 
ling  of  white  branches,  and  made  as  if  she  would 
have  fled ;  then  she  held  up  her  head  with  gentle 
dignity  and  advanced,  lifting  her  lady-skirts  with 
dainty  fingers  on  either  side.  Mistress  Dorothy, 
being  weary  of  fine  needle-work  upon  her  bridal 
linen,  had  come  out  a  little  way  to  take  the  air, 
and  naturally  enough  had  chosen  for  her  walk 
this  sweet  lane,  which  opened  upon  the  highway 
a  stoneVthrow  below  her  house. 

If  Eugene  Hautville,  at  sight  of  her,  felt  a 
quaking  of  his  spirit,  and  would  also  fain  have 
fled,  he  made  no  sign,  but  walked  on  proudly 
like  a  prince,  with  a  bold  yet  graceful  swing  of 
his  stalwart  shoulders.  And  when  he  and  Doro 
thy  met,  he  bowed  low  before  her,  and  she  courte- 
sied  and  he  bade  her  good-day  quite  clearly,  and 
she  murmured  a  response  with  pretty,  prim  lips ; 


206  MADELON 

and  they  would  have  passed  on  had  not  both,  as 
if  constrained  by  hands  of  force  upon  their  necks, 
raised  their  faces  and  looked  of  a  sudden  into 
each  other  eyes  with  that  same  old  look  which 
they  had  exchanged  in  the  meeting-house  long 
ago. 

Dorothy  Fair  wore  on  that  day  a  thin  wool 
gown  of  a  mottled  blue  color  like  a  dapple  of 
spring  violets.  It  was  laid  across  her  bosom  in 
smooth  plaits,  and  showed  at  the  throat  her  finely 
wrought  lace  kerchief.  The  sun  was  so  warm  that 
she  had  put  on  her  white  straw  hat  with  blue 
ribbons,  and  her  soft  curls  flowed  from  under  it 
to  her  blue  belt  ribbon.  She  wore,  too,  her  little 
black-silk  apron,  cunningly  worked  in  the  corners 
with  flowers  in  colored  silks.  Dorothy  looked  up 
in  Eugene  Hautville's  face,  and  he  looked  down 
at  her,  for  a  force  against  which  they  had  come 
into  the  world  unarmed  constrained  them.  Then 
she  bent  her  head  before  him  until  he  could  see 
nothing  but  the  white  slant  of  her  hat,  and  caught 
at  her  silk  apron  as  if  she  would  hide  her  face 
with  that  also. 

Eugene  stood  still  looking  at  her,  his  face  radi 
ant  and  glowing  red.  "  Dorothy  !"  he  stammered, 
and  then  Dorothy  straightened  herself  suddenly, 
though  she  kept  her  face  averted,  flung  up  her 
head,  caught  up  her  blue  skirts  again,  and  made 
as  if  she  would  pass  on  without  another  word. 
Eugene,  with  his  face  all  at  once  white,  and  his 


MADELON  267 

head  proudly  raised,  stood  aside  to  let  her  pass. 
"'Tis  a  warm  day  for  the  season,"  he  said,  with 
his  old  graceful  courtesy.  But  Dorothy  looked 
up  at  him  again  as  she  neared  him  in  passing,  and 
her  sweet  mouth  was  quivering  like  a  frightened 
baby's,  and  the  tears  were  in  her  blue  eyes,  and 
no  man  who  loved  her  could  have  let  her  go  by  ; 
and  certainly  not  this  fiery  young  Eugene.  Sud 
denly,  and  with  seemingly  no  more  involvement 
of  wills  or  ethics  than  the  alders  in  their  blossom 
ing,  the  two  were  in  each  other's  arms,  and  their 
lips  were  meeting  in  kisses. 

This  fair  and  demure  daughter  of  Puritans 
might  well,  as  she  stood  there  in  her  lover's  em 
brace,  being  already,  as  she  was,  the  betrothed 
bride  of  another,  have  been  accounted  fickle  and 
false,  but  perhaps  in  a  sense  she  was  not.  Never 
had  she  forgot  or  been  untrue  to  her  first  love- 
dreams,  which  Eugene  had  caused,  but  had  held 
to  them  with  that  mild  negative  obstinacy  of  her 
nature  which  she  could  not  herself  overcome. 
Now  it  was  to  her  as  if  she  were  reconciled  to  her 
true  lover,  and  was  faithful  instead  of  false ;  and 
less  false  she  surely  was  to  her  own  self. 

Right  contentedly  had  she  loved  for  a  time 
Burr's  love  for  her  and  his  tenderness,  and  had 
been  stirred  thereby  to  passion,  but  now  she  loved 
this  other  man  for  something  better  than  her 
own  sweet  image  in  his  eyes. 

Never  a  word  she  said,  but  her  hat  slipped  down 


268  MADELOX 

on  her  shoulders,  hanging  by  its  blue  strings,  and 
she  let  her  head  lie  on  Eugene's  shoulder,  with  a 
strange  sense  of  wontedness  and  of  remembering 
something  which  had  never  been. 

And,  also,  all  Eugene's  fond  words  in  her  ear 
seemed  to  her  like  the  strains  of  old  songs  which 
were  past  her  memory.  Burr's,  although  she  had 
listened  happily,  had  never  seemed  to  her  like 
that. 

They  stood  together  so  for  a  few  minutes,  while 
the  alder-flowers  shook  out  sweetness,  as  from 
perfumed  garments,  at  their  side,  and  a  bee  who 
had  left  his  hive  and  winter  honey,  and  made  that 
day  another  surprise  of  spring,  hummed  from  one 
white  raceme  to  another  and  then  was  away,  dis 
appearing  in  the  blue  air  with  a  last  gleam  of  filmy 
wing  as  behind  a  sapphire  wall. 

Neither  of  the  lovers  had  knowingly  heard  the 
bee's  hum,  but  when  it  ceased  the  silence  seemed 
to  make  an  accusing  sense  audible  to  them.  They 
let  each  other  go  and  stood  apart  guiltily,  as  if 
some  one  had  entered  the  lane  and  was  spying 
upon  them. 

Dorothy  spoke  first,  without  raising  her  pale 
little  face,  all  drooped  round  with  her  curls. 
"What  shall  I  do  ?"  she  said,  like  a  child.  She 
was  trembling,  and  could  scarcely  control  her 
tongue. 

Eugene  made  no  reply.  He  stood  looking 
moodily  at  the  ground,  where  his  nosegay  of 


MADELON  269 

violets  and  alders  was  all  scattered  and  tram 
pled. 

Suddenly  he  had  the  feeling  as  of  a  thief  in  an 
other  man's  garden,  and  a  shame  before  Dorothy 
herself  came  over  him.  Eugene  Hautville's  prin 
ciples  of  honor,  in  spite  of  his  fiery  nature,  read 
like  a  primer,  with  no  subtleties  of  evasion  therein. 
Here  was  another  man's  betrothed,  and  he  had 
wooed  her  away  !  He  had  kissed  her  lips,  which 
were  vowed  to  another.  He  had  wronged  her  and 
Burr  Gordon  also.  Strangely  enough,  Dorothy's 
own  responsibility  never  occurred  to  him  at  all  ; 
he  never  dreamed  of  blaming  her  for  falsity  either 
to  himself  or  Burr.  That  little  fair  trembling 
creature,  clad  like  a  violet  in  her  mottled  blue, 
seemed  to  him  at  once  above  and  below  all  ques 
tions  of  personal  agency.  She  bloomed  like  a 
flower  in  her  garden,  infinitely  finer  than  those 
who  wrangled  around  her  and  strove  to  gather 
her,  and  yet  in  a  measure  helpless  before  them. 

In  a  moment  Dorothy  answered  her  question 
negatively  herself  :  "  I  will  not  marry  Burr,"  she 
said,  without  raising  her  head,  and  yet  with  that 
tone  of  voice  which  accompanies  a  lift  of  chin 
and  stiffening  of  the  neck  muscles. 

Eugene  looked  at  her,  and  extended  his  arms 
as  if  he  would  take  her  to  him  again  ;  then  drew 
them  back.  "I  do  not  know  what  to  counsel 
you,"  he  said,  slowly.  Then  his  eyes  fell  before 
the  sudden  shame  and  distress  in  Dorothy's. 


270  MADELON 

"You  do  not  know  what  to  counsel  me  I"  she 
cried.  "Then  you  do  not  —  care  — "  Tears 
rolled  over  her  cheeks,  and  Eugene  gathered  her 
into  his  arms  again,,  and  laid  his  cheek  against 
her  fair  head,  and  soothed  her  as  he  would  have 
soothed  a  child.  "  There,  there,"  he  whispered, 
"it  is  not  that,  it  is  not  that,  sweet.  I  would 
die  for  you,  I  love  you  so  !  It  is  not  that,  but 
you  are  the  promised  wife  of  another  man. 
How  cau  I  turn  a  thief  even  for  you,  Doro 
thy  ?  How  can  I  bid  you  be  false,  and  for 
swear  yourself  ?  There's  honor  as  well  as  love, 
child." 

"But  love  is  honor,"  said  Dorothy. 

"Not  for  a  man,"  said  Eugene. 

Then  she  clung  to  him  softly  and  modestly, 
and  sobbed,  and  he  kissed  her  hair  and  whispered 
in  one  breath  that  she  was  all  his  own,  and  in 
another  that  he  knew  not  what  to  do,  and  was 
near  distracted  between  his  love  and  his  sense  of 
honor,  until  Dorothy  said  something  which  set 
him  pleading  for  his  rival  whether  he  would  or 
no,  for  the  sake  of  stern  justice. 

"I  am  afraid  of  him,  I  am  afraid  of  Burr," 
Dorothy  whispered  in  his  ear.  "  How  could  I 
have  married  him,  when  I  was  so  afraid,  even  if 
you  had  not  come  ?" 

"Afraid?" 

"  You — Tcnoio — what — they  said — Burr  did!" 

Eugene  held  her  away  from  him  by  her  slender 


MADELOtf  271 

arms,  and  looked  at  her.     "You  did  not  believe 
that  ?" 

"He  would  not  tell  me  he  was  innocent,  even 
when  I  begged  him  so.7' 

"You  knew  he  was." 

"Why  did  he  not  tell  me,  when  I  begged  him 
so  ?"  she  said,  and  the  soft  unyielding  in  her  tone 
was  absolute. 

"Dorothy  !" 

"I  am  so  afraid — you  don't  know/'  she  whis 
pered,  piteously. 

"But — you  know  Burr  was  cleared." 

"Yes,  I  know,  but  even  now  he  will  not  tell 
me  on  the  Bible,  as  I  asked  him,  that  he  is  inno 
cent." 

"  Dorothy,  he  is  innocent,"  Eugene  said,  with 
solemn  and  bitter  emphasis  of  which  she  knew 
not  the  full  meaning. 

"  Then  why  does  he  not  swear  that  he  is,  to 
me  ?"  Back  went  Dorothy  always,  in  all  reason 
ing,  to  the  starting-point  in  her  own  mind. 

"I  tell  you  he  is,  child.  It  has  been  proven 
so." 

"Then  why — "  Dorothy  began,  but  Eugene 
interrupted  her  in  her  circle.  "There  is  no 
more  cause  for  you  to  fear  him  than  me,"  he  said 
almost  harshly,  in  his  stern  resolve  to  be  just. 
Then  Dorothy  turned  on  him  with  sudden  pas 
sion.  "I  am  afraid,"  she  cried  out,  "I  shall 
always  be  afraid  ;  even  if  he  were  to  swear  to  me 


272  MADBtON 

now  that  he  is  innocent,  I  shall  always  be  afraid, 
for  I  coupled  him  with  that  awful  deed  once  in 
my  thoughts,  and  I  cannot  separate  him  from  it 
forever.  He  will  always  hold  the  knife  in  his 
hand  ;  even  if  it  were  not  for  you,  I  should  be 
near  mad  with  fear.  I  bid  black  Phyllis  stay  by 
the  door  when  he  comes." 

"  Dorothy  I" 

"Yes,  I  do.  What  my  mind  has  once  laid 
hold  of,  that  it  will  not  let  go.  I  cannot  sepa 
rate  him  from  my  old  thought  of  him.  I  have 
tried  to  be  faithful,  and  true,  but  even  had  he 
sworn  to  me  that  he  was  innocent,  the  fear  would 
have  remained.  Save  me  from  him — oh,  Eugene, 
save  me  !" 

But  Eugene  put  her  quite  away  from  him,  and 
looked  at  her  almost  sternly.  His  honor  held 
the  reins  now  in  good  earnest.  The  suspicion  of 
Madelon,  which  he  had  never  owned  to  himself, 
became  a  certainty.  He  defended  his  rival  as 
strenuously  as  he  would  have  defended  himself, 
since  it  involved  truth  to  himself.  "I  swear  to 
you,  Dorothy  Fair,"  he  said,  "  that  Burr  Gordon 
is  innocent,  and  that  your  fear  of  him  is  ground 
less." 

Dorothy  looked  at  him  with  dilated  eyes.  She 
said  not  a  word,  but  her  mind  travelled  its  circle 
again. 

"It  is  so,"  said  Eugene ;  "I  know  it." 

Still  Dorothy  looked  at  him. 


MADELON  273 

"  All  my  heart  is  yours,"  Eugene  went  on,  "  but 
I  would  rather  it  broke,  and  yours  too,  before  I 
counselled  you  to  be  false  to  a  man  for  a  reason 
like  that." 

A  flush  came  over  Dorothy's  face.  She  pulled 
her  straw  hat  from  her  shoulders  to  her  head, 
and  tied  the  blue  strings  under  her  chin.  She 
gathered  up  daintily  a  fold  of  her  blue  mottled 
skirt  on  either  side.  "Then  I  will  marry  Burr 
this  day  week,"  she  said.  "I  will  endeavor  to  be 
a  good  and  true  wife  to  him,  and  I  pray  you  to 
forget  if  you  can  what  has  passed  between  us  to 
day." 

She  said  this  as  calmly  and  authoritatively  as 
her  father  could  have  said  it  in  the  pulpit,  and 
courtesied  slightly,  then  went  011  down  the  lane 
and  out  into  the  open  beyond,  with  a  soft  tilt  of 
her  blue  skirts  and  as  gently  proud  a  carriage  as 
when  she  walked  into  the  meeting-house  of  a 
Sabbath. 

Eugene  said  not  a  word  to  stop  her,  but  stood 
staring  after  her.  All  his  study  of  his  Shake 
speare  helped  him  not  to  an  understanding  of  this 
one  girl,  whom  he  saw  with  love-dimmed  eyes. 
This  sudden  abetting  on  her  part  of  his  resolve 
gave  him  a  sense  of  earthquake  and  revolution, 
yet  he  did  not  call  her  back  or  follow  her. 

He  proceeded  through  the  lane  to  the  highway, 
then  a  few  yards  farther  to  the  store,  to  get  his 
Boston  weekly  paper.  The  mail  had  come  in. 

IB 


274  MADELON 

On  this  warm  spring  day  the  loafers  on  the  boxes 
and  barrels  within  the  store  had  crawled  out  to 
the  bench  on  the  piazza  and  sat  there  in  a  row. 
All  mental  states  have  their  illustrative  lives  of 
body.  This  shabby  row  leaned  and  lopped  and 
settled  upon  themselves,  into  all  the  lines  and 
curves  and  downward  slants  of  laziness,  and  with 
rank  tobacco-smoke  curling  about  them,,  like  the 
very  languid  breath  of  it.  However,,  when  Eugene 
Hautville  drew  near,  there  was  a  slight  shuffling 
stir ;  a  drawling  hum  of  conversation  ceased,  and 
when  he  entered  the  store  their  eyes  followed 
him,  bright  with  furtive  attention.  The  mill  of 
gossip  had  ground  slowly  in  this  heavy  spring 
atmosphere,  but  it  had  ground  steadily.  They 
had  been  discussing  Madelon  Hautville  and  the 
breaking  oif  of  her  marriage  with  Lot  Gordon.  It 
was  village  property  by  this  time,  and  all  tongues 
were  exercised  over  it. 

"  Why  ain't  Lot  Gordon  goin'  to  marry  her  ?" 
they  asked  each  other,  and  exchanged  answering 
looks  of  dark  suspicion.  The  reason  for  not 
marrying  which  Lot  used  every  means  in  his 
power  to  promulgate — his  fast -failing  health — 
gained  little  credence.  The  story  came  directly 
from  the  doctor's  wife  that  Lot  Gordon  was  no 
•worse  than  he  had  been  for  the  last  ten  years,  and 
was  likely  to  live  ten  years  to  come.  Margaret 
Bean  was  said  to  have  told  a  neighboring  woman, 
who  told  another,  who  in  her  turn  told  another, 


MADELON  275 

and  so  started  an  endless  chain  of  good  authority, 
that  Lot  Gordon  had  never  coughed  so  little  as 
he  did  this  spring,  and  "  ate  like  a  pig."  He 
was,  it  is  true,  never  seen  on  the  highway,  but 
there  were  those  who  said  he  was  abroad  again  in 
his  old  woodland  haunts. 

"  Guess  he  didn't  change  his  mind  about  havin' 
Mad'lon  Hautville  'cause  he  was  so  much  worse 
than  common,"  they  said  ;  "  guess  when  the  time 
drawed  near  he  was  afraid."  Margaret  Bean  was, 
furthermore,  on  good  authority  reported  to  have 
intimated  that  never,  if  Madelon  had  come  to 
that  house  while  she  was  in  it,  would  she  and  her 
husband  have  gone  to  bed  without  the  scissors  in 
the  latch  of  their  bedroom  door. 

Lot  Gordon,  who  had  forsworn  himself  to 
save  Madelon,  was  now,  by  his  last  sacrifice  for 
her,  bidding  fair  to  prove  what  her  own  asser 
tions  had  failed  to  do — her  guilt.  He  crept  out 
secretly  into  cover  of  the  woods,  now  and  then, 
on  a  mild  day ;  he  could  not  deny  himself  that. 
But  otherwise  he  stayed  close,  and  coughed  hard 
when  there  were  listening  ears,  and  complained 
like  any  old  woman  of  his  increasing  aches  and 
pains.  Still  his  cunning  availed  little,  although 
he  did  not  dream  of  it. 

He  went  not  among  the  gossips  himself,  and 
•no  one  as  yet  had  ventured  to  approach  him  with 
the  rumor  that  was  fast  gaining  ground. 

No  one  had  ventured  to  broach  the  matter  to 


276  MADELON 

the  Hautville  men,  for  obvious  reasons.  "I 
wouldn't  vally  your  skin  if  that  fellar  overheard 
what  you  was  sayin'  of  when  he  come  up  the  road, 
Joe  Simpson/'  one  loafer  drawled  to  another, 
when  Eugene  left  the  store  that  afternoon  and 
had  disappeared  going  the  long  way  home. 

"  Hush  up,  will  ye  !"  whispered  the  other,  glan 
cing  around  pale  under  his  unshaven  beard  as  if 
he  feared  Eugene  might  yet  be  there.  The  Haut 
ville  men,  however,  hearing  nothing,  and  saying 
nothing  about  the  matter  to  each  other,  had 
always,  among  themselves,  a  subtle  exchange  of 
uneasy  thought  concerning  it.  If  one  sat  moodily 
by  and  moved  out  of  her  way  without  a  word 
while  Madelon  prepared  a  meal,  the  others  knew 
what  it  meant.  They  also  knew  well  the  mean 
ing  of  each  other's  glances  at  her,  and  sudden 
lowering  of  brows.  Madelon  herself  did  not  know. 
When  she  had  come  home  that  Sunday  night,  and 
announced  that  she  was  not  going  to  be  married 
at  all,  she  had  not  understood  the  sharp  ques 
tioning,  and  then  the  stern  quiet  that  followed 
upon  it.  She  had  told  them  simply  that  Lot  said 
that  his  lungs  were  gone  ;  that  he  had  ascertained 
the  fact  himself  through  his  own  knowledge  of 
medicine ;  that  he  could  only  live  a  wreck  of  a 
man,  if  at  all,  and,  knowing  it  was  so,  had  made 
up  his  mind  that  he  would  not  marry. 

Lot  had  indeed  told  her  so,  and  had  made  her 
believe  it,  doing  away  with  much  of  the  force 


MADELON  277 

of  his  giving  her  up  for  the  sake  of  his  love.  It 
is  difficult  in  any  case  for  one  to  understand  fully 
the  love  to  which  he  cannot  respond,,  for  involun 
tarily  the  heart  averts  itself  from  it  like  an  ear 
or  an  eye,  and  misses  it  like  the  highest  notes 
of  music  and  colors  of  the  spectrum. 

Madelon  had  stared  dumbly  at  Lot  when  he 
told  her  she  was  free,  and  for  a  moment  indeed 
had  struggled  with  a  consciousness  which  would 
have  stirred  her  at  least  into  pity  and  gratitude 
and  remorse,,  which  she  had  never  known,  had 
not  Lot  recovered  himself  and  spoken  again  in 
his  old  manner.  He  tapped  himself  on  his  hollow 
chest.  "  After  all,"  he  said,  "'tis  best  you  are 
not  seduced  like  most  of  your  sex  into  making 
the  accessories  of  life  supply  the  lack  of  the 
primal  needs  of  it,  into  taking  sugar  instead  of 
bread,  and  weakening  your  stomach  and  your 
understanding.  'Tis  best  for  you  and  best  for 
me,  and  best  for  those  that  might  come  after  us. 
Treasure  of  house  and  land  and  fine  apparel  and 
furnishings  may  be  a  goodly  inheritance,  but  our 
heirs  would  thank  us  more  for  power  to  draw  the 
breath  of  life  freely,  and  you  would  do  better 
without  a  gown  to  your  back,  or  a  shoe  to  your 
foot,  and  a  mate  that  was  not  half  a  dead  man ; 
and  I  should  do  better  alone  in  my  anteroom 
of  the  tomb  than  with  another  life  to  disturb  the 
peace  of  it,  and  rouse  me  to  efforts  which  will 
send  me  farther  on." 


278  MADELON 

Madclon  had  stared  at  him,  not  knowing  what 
to  say,  with  compassion,  and  yet  with  growing 
conviction  of  his  selfish  ends,  which  disturbed  it. 

Lot  tapped  his  chest  again.  "My  lungs  are 
gone,"  he  said,  shortly ;  "  I  need  no  doctor  to  tell 
me.  I  know  enough  of  physics  myself  to  send 
the  whole  village  stumbling,  instead  of  racing, 
into  their  graves,  if  I  choose  to  use  it.  My  lungs 
are  gone,  and  you  are  well  quit  of  me,  and  I  of  a 
foolish  undertaking,  though  of  a  charming  bride. 
Now,  go  your  way,  child,  and  take  up  your  maiden 
dreams  again,  for  all  me." 

Madelon  looked  at  him  proudly,  although  she 
was  half  dazed  by  what  she  heard.  "  I  care  noth 
ing  for  all  the  fine  things  you  have  shown  me," 
said  she,  "and  I  have  told  you  truly  always  that 
I  do  not  care  for  you,  but  I  will  keep  my  promise 
to  marry  you  unless  you  yourself  bid  me  to  break 
it." 

"  I  bid  you  break  it,"  said  Lot,  steadily,  and 
his  eyes  met  hers,  and  his  old  mocking  smile 
played  over  his  white  face.  Then  suddenly  he 
bent  over  with  his  racking  cough,  and  Madelon 
made  a  step  towards  him,  but  he  motioned  her 
taway.  "  Good-night — child,"  he  gasped  out. 
<  Then  Madelon  had  gone  home  and  told  her 
father  and  brothers,  and  thought  their  strange 
reception  of  the  news  due  to  anything  but  the 
truth.  She  had  told  them  that  she  was  guilty 
of  wounding  Lot  Gordon  almost  to  death.  That 


MADELON  279 

they  should  now  be  rendered  uneasy  by  suspicions, 
when  she  had  given  them  actual  knowledge,  was 
something  beyond  her  imagination.  She  fancied 
rather  that  they  considered  Lot  had  treated  her 
badly,  or  else  that  she  had  a  longing  love  for  Burr, 
and,  perhaps,  had  herself  broken  off  her  match 
with  his  cousin  on  that  account.  She  strove  hard 
to  bear  herself  in  such  a  manner  that  they  should 
not  think  that.  She  put  on  as  gay  a  face  as  she 
could  muster,  and  even  took,  beside  the  dress, 
a  little  blue-silk  mantle  to  embroider  for  Dor 
othy  Fair's  wedding  outfit,  and  sang  over  it  as 
she  worked. 

Still  in  a  way,  although  her  pride  led  her  to  it, 
her  singing  and  her  gayety  were  no  pretence,  for 
Madelon,  through  much  suffering,  had  reached 
that  growth  in  love  which  enabled  her  to  see  over 
her  own  self  and  her  own  needs.  That  knife- 
thrust  she  had  meant  for  her  lover  had  stilled 
forever  the  jealous  temper  in  her  own  heart,  and 
she  fairly  dreamed  as  she  embroidered  Dorothy's 
bridal  mantle  some  dreams  of  happiness  that 
might  have  been  Burr's ;  so  filled  was  she  with 
purest  love  for  him  that  his  imagination  possessed 
her  own. 


CHAPTER   XXIII 

IT  was  told  on  good  authority  in  the  village 
that  Parson  Fair  had  paid  all  Burr  Gordon's  back 
interest  money  on  his  mortgage,  and  so  released 
him  from  the  danger  of  foreclosure  ;  and  then 
on  equally  good  authority  it  was  denied.  There 
was  much  discussion  over  it,  but  one  day  the 
loafers  in  the  store  arrived  at  the  truth.  Parson 
Fair  had  indeed  offered  to  pay  the  interest,  and 
Burr  had  declined.  He  had  also  refused  to  live 
with  his  bride  in  his  father-in-law's  house,  and 
when  Parson  Fair  had,  with  his  gracefully  aus 
tere  manner,  intimated  that  he  should  be  un 
willing  to  place  his  daughter  in  such  uncertain 
shelter,  had  replied  harshly  that  Dorothy  should 
have  a  roof  over  her  head  of  his  own  providing 
while  he  lived  ;  when  he  was  dead  it  would  be 
time  to  talk  about  her  father's. 

When  Burr  had  gone  to  Lot  Gordon  and  of 
fered  to  part  with  a  small  wood-lot  of  his,  with  a 
quantity  of  half-grown  wood  thereon,  at  two- 
thirds  of  its  real  value  to  pay  the  interest,  Mar 
garet  Bean  had  listened  at  the  door,  and  thus  the 
story. 


MADELON  281 

"It  is  a  sacrifice  of  a  full  third  of  its  value, 
you  know  well  enough,"  Burr  had  said,  standing 
moodily  before  his  cousin.  "  If  I  could  wait  for 
the  growth  of  the  wood,  'twould  bring  much 
more,  but  I'll  call  it  even  on  the  interest  I  owe 
you,  if  you  will.  This  is  the  last  foot  of  land  I 
own  clear." 

For  answer  Lot  had  bidden  Burr  open  his 
desk  and  bring  him  a  certain  paper  from  a  certain 
corner.  Then  Margaret  Bean  had  opened  the 
door  a  crack,  and  had  with  her  two  peering  eyes 
seen  Lot  Gordon  take  his  pen  in  hand  and  write 
upon  the  paper,  and  show  it  to  his  cousin  Burr. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Burr,  ( '  I  will  go  ho,me  and 
get  the  deed  of  the  wood-lot,"  and  motioned  tow 
ards  the  door,  which  drew  to  in  a  soft  panic  as 
if  with  the  wind. 

"  Stop,"  said  Lot ;  and  Margaret  Bean  paused 
in  her  flight,  and  laid  her  ear  to  the  door  again. 
"  I  don't  want  your  woodland,"  said  Lot.  "  The 
interest  is  paid  without  it.  It  is  your  wedding- 

gift." 

«  Why  should  you  do  this  ?  I  did  not  ask  you 
to,"  Burr  returned,  almost  defiantly ;  and  Mar 
garet  Bean  had  felt  indignant  at  his  unthankful- 
ness. 

"You  can  take  from  your  kinsman  what  you 
could  not  take  from  Parson  Pair/'  replied  Lot. 
"I  hear  you  will  not  go  to  nest  in  Parson  Fair's 
snug  roof -tree,  with  your  pretty  bird,  either." 


282  MADELON 

( '  I  will  die  before  I  will  take  my  wife  under 
any  roof  but  my  own/7  cried  Burr,  fiercely,  "and 
I  want  no  gifts  from  you  either.  I  am  not  turned 
beggar  from  any  one  yet.  You  shall  take  the 
woodland/' 

Lot  waved  his  hand  as  if  he  swept  the  wood 
land,  with  all  its  half -grown  trees,  out  of  his  hor 
izon.  "And  yet,"  he  said,  "I  thought  'twas 
what  you  left  the  other  for.  I  should  have  said 
'twas  but  your  wage  that  was  offered  you  ;"  and 
he  smiled  at  his  cousin. 

"What  do  you  mean,  Lot  Gordon  ?" 

Lot  looked  at  him  with  sharp  interest.  "  Was 
there  another  leaf  of  you  to  read  when  I  thought 
I  was  at  the  end,"  said  he,  "  or  were  you  writ  in 
such  plain  characters  that  I  put  in  somewhat  of 
my  own  imaginings  to  give  substance  to  them  ? 
Are  you  better,  and  worse,  than  I  thought  you, 
cousin  ?  Do  you  love  this  flower  that  has  her 
counterpart  in  all  the  gardens  of  the  world,  that 
is  as  sweet  and  no  sweeter,  that  you  can  replace 
when  she  dies  by  stooping  and  picking,  better 
than  the  one  which  has  thorns  enough  to  kill 
and  sweetness  enough  to  pay  for  death,  and  whose 
bloom  you  can  never  match  ?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  Burr  said, 
impatiently  and  angrily  ;  and  Margaret  Bean  out 
side  the  door  wagged  her  head  in  scornful  as 
sent. 

"  Then  you  loved  Dorothy  Fair  better  than 


MADELON  283 

Madelon  Hautville,  and  'twas  not  her  place  and 
money  that  turned  you  her  way/'  said  Lot,  as  if 
he  were  translating ;  and  he  kept  his  keen  eyes 
on  the  other's  face. 

Burr's  face  flashed  white.  "What  right  have 
you  to  question  me  like  this  ?"  he  demanded. 

"  But  you  would  not  take  the  price,  after  all/' 
said  Lot,  as  if  he  had  been  answered,  instead  of 
questioned.  Then  he  looked  up  at  his  cousin 
with  something  like  kindness  in  his  blue  eyes. 
' '  It  proves  the  truth  of  what  I've  thought  be 
fore,"  he  said,  "  that  oftentimes  a  man  has  to 
sting  his  own  honor  with  his  own  deeds  to  knovr 
'tis  in  him." 

"  My  honor  is  my  own  lookout,"  Burr  said, 
harshly. 

"And  you've  looked  out  for  it  better  than  I 
thought,"  Lot  returned. 

Burr  made  another  motion  towards  the  door. 
"'I  can't  stand  here  any  longer,"  he  said.  "  I'll 
go  for  the  deed."  Margaret  Bean,  moving  as 
softly  as  she  could  in  her  starched  draperies, 
fled  back  to  the  kitchen. 

"Wait  a  minute,"  Lot  said. 

"Well,"  returned  Burr,  impatiently. 

Lot  got  up,  went  over  to  the  mantel-shelf,  and 
stood  there  a  minute,  leaning  against  it,  his  face 
hidden.  When  he  looked  at  Burr  again  he  was 
so  white  that  his  cousin  started.  "Are  you 
sick  ?"  he  cried,  with  harsh  concern. 


284  MADELON 

Lot  smiled  with  stiff  lips.  "  Only  with  the 
life -sickness  that  smites  the  child  when  it  en 
ters  the  world,  and  makes  it  weep  with  its  first 
breath,"  he  answered. 

"  If  you  want  to  say  anything  to  me,  Lot, 
talk  like  a  man,  and  not  a  book,"  Burr  cried  out, 
with  another  step  towards  the  door ;  and  yet  he 
spoke  kindly  enough,  for  there  was  something 
in  his  cousin's  face  which  aroused  his  pity. 

"It  is  not—"  began  Lot,  and  stopped,  and 
caught  his  breath.  Burr  watched  him  half 
alarmed ;  he  looked  in  mortal  agony.  Lot 
clutched  the  carven  edge  of  the  mantel-shelf, 
then  loosened  his  fingers.  "If,"  he  said,  bro 
kenly,  looking  at  Burr  with  the  eyes  of  one  who 
awaits  a  mortal  blow,  "you  want — Madelon — it 
is  not — too  late.  She — I  know  how  she  feels — 
towards  you." 

Burr  turned  white,  as  he  stared  at  him. 
"She — she  was  going  to  marry  you!"  he  said 
with  a  sneer. 

"  Do — you  know  why  ?" 

Burr  shook  his  head,  still  staring  at  his 
cousin. 

"It  was  the  price  of — your — acquittal." 

Burr  did  not  move  his  eyes  from  Lot's  face. 
He  looked  as  if  he  were  reading  something  there 
writ  in  startling  characters,  against  which  his 
whole  soul  leaped  up  in  incredulity.  "  My  God, 
I  see  !"  he  groaned  out  slowly,  at  length.  And 


MADELON  285 

then  he  said,  sharply,  "  But — you  were  going  to 
marry  her.  Why  did  you  give  her  up  ?" 

"  I  loved  her,"  Lot  said,  simply.  His  white 
face  worked. 

"  But  now — you — ask  me  to — " 

"I  love  her  I"  Lot  said  again,  with  a  gasp. 

Burr  strode  forward,  quite  up  to  his  cousin, 
and  grasped  his  hand  warmly  for  the  first  time 
in  his  life.  "Before  the  Lord,  Lot/'  he  said, 
huskily,  "'twas  you,  and  not  me,  she  should 
have  fancied  in  the  first  of  it." 

"  It  is  neither  you  nor  me,  nor  any  other  man, 
that  she  will  ever  love  as  he  is,"  Lot  said,  shortly, 
straightening  himself,  for  jealousy  stung  him  hard. 

66  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"Woman  reverses  creation.  She  is  a  subli 
mated  particle  of  a  man,  and  she  builds  a  god 
from  her  own  superstructure,  and  clothes  him 
with  any  image  whom  she  chooses.  She  chose 
yours.  Live  up  to  her  thought  of  you,  if  you 
can." 

Burr  dropped  his  cousin's  hand,  and  sur 
veyed  him  with  that  impatient  wonder  which  he 
always  felt  when  he  used  his  favorite  symbolic 
speech.  "  There's  no  question  of  my  living  up 
to  the  thought  of  any  woman's  but  my  wife's," 
he  said,  bitterly,  and  turned  away. 

"  There's  no  knowing  to  what  stature  even  a 
Dorothy  Fair  may  raise  a  man  in  her  mind. 
You  may  not  be  able  to  grow  to  that." 


286  MADELON 

"It  is  all  I  shall  attempt." 

Then  Lot  spoke  again,  in  that  short-breathed 
voice  of  his,  straining  between  the  syllables.  ' '  Be 
sure — that  you  do — what — you  will  not — regret. 
Honor  is  not — always  what  we — think  it." 

"I  have  my  own  conception  of  it  at  least,  and 
that  I  live  up  to.  '  Tis  high  time,"  said  Burr, 
with  a  kind  of  proud  scorn  of  himself  in  his 
voice. 

"  Madelon  Hautville — loves — you." 

"She  does  not,  after  all  this." 

"She  does!" 

Burr  stood  straight  and  firm  before  his  cousin, 
like  a  soldier.  "If  she  does,"  said  he,  "and  if 
she  loved  me  with  the  love  of  ten  lives  instead  of 
one,  and  I  her,  as  perhaps  I  do,  this  last  word 
of  mine  I  will  keep !"  Then  he  went  out  with 
not  another  word,  and  presently  returned  with 
the  deed  of  his  little  wooded  property,  which, 
however,  his  cousin  Lot  finally  persuaded  him  to 
keep,  as  Margaret  Bean  gathered  at  the  door, 
whither  she  had  ventured  again. 

The  loafers  knew  it  all  by  nightfall,  the  news 
having  been  brought  to  the  store  by  old  Luke 
Basset,  who  had  gotten  it  from  Margaret  Bean's 
husband.  In  a  day  or  two  they  knew  more  from 
the  same  source.  Lot  Gordon  had  engaged  his 
cousin  to  improve  the  Gordon  acres  which  had 
been  lying  fallow  for  the  last  ten  years.  He  had 
offered  him  a  good  salary.  He  wanted  to  carry 


MADELOK  287 

out  some  new-fangled  schemes  which  he  had  got 
out  of  books.  Burr  was  going  right  to  work ; 
he  had  hired  a  man  from  New  Salem  to  help 
him. 

People  began  to  think  better  of  Lot  Gordon 
than  they  had  ever  done,  and  they  looked  at  Burr 
with  more  respect.  Many  had  considered  that 
Dorothy  Fair  was  not  going  to  "do  very  well/' 
"Guess  if  it  wa'n't  for  her  father,  and  the  chance 
of  Lot's  dying,  she'd  have  a  pretty  poor  pros 
pect,"  they  had  said.  Now  they  agreed  that 
"Maybe  Burr  Gordon  won't  turn  out  so  bad  af 
ter  all.  Maybe  he'll  settle  right  down  and  go  to 
work,  and  pay  off  his  mortgage,  when  he  gets 
married,  and  get  a  good  living,  even  if  Lot  should 
hold  out  some  time  to  come." 

They  watched  Burr  as  he  swung  up  the  street 
to  Parson  Fair's  in  the  spring  twilights,  with  ad 
miration  for  his  stalwart  grace,  and  growing 
approval  for  those  inner  qualities  which  outward 
beauty  sometimes  but  poorly  indicates.  They 
approved  also  of  the  temperate  hours  which  he 
observed  in  his  courting,  for  no  one  within  eye 
shot,  or  ear-shot,  but  knew  when  Parson  Fair's 
front  door  closed  behind  him.  Burr,  during  the 
last  weeks  before  his  marriage,  never  stayed  much 
later  than  half-past  nine  or  ten  at  his  sweet 
heart's  house,  and,  in  truth,  was  not  sorely 
tempted  to  do  so.  Mistress  Dorothy  in  those 
days  behaved  in  a  manner  which  might  well  have 


288  MADELON 

aroused  to  rebellion  a  more  ardent  or  a  less  de- 
terminately  faithful  lover.  She  had  the  candles 
lit  early  in  the  beautiful  spring  twilights,  and 
then  she  sat  and  stitched  and  stitched  upon  her 
wedding  finery,  bending  her  fair  face,  half  con 
cealed  by  drooping  curls,  assiduously  over  it, 
having  never  a  hand  at  liberty  for  a  lover's  caress, 
or  an  eye  for  his  smiles.  Then,  too,  when  Burr 
took  leave,  she  stood  before  him  with  such  a 
strange  effect  of  terror  and  hauteur  that  he  could 
do  no  more  than  touch  her  lips  as  if  she  had  been 
a  timid  child,  and  bid  her  good-night.  Had 
Burr  Gordon,  in  those  days,  been  less  aware  of 
his  own  unfaithfulness  and  weariness,  and  less 
fiercely  resolved  not  to  yield  to  it,  he  might  well 
have  perceived  Dorothy's.  As  it  was  he  con 
fused  her  coldness  with  his  own,  and  attributed 
it  to  the  change  in  his  own  heart,  and  not  to  that 
in  hers.  And  even  had  he  suspected  it  he  would 
not  have  made  the  first  motion  for  freedom,  so 
desperate  was  his  adherence  to  falsity  for  the 
sake  of  truth. 

Burr  Gordon  had  at  stake  in  this  last  more 
than  any  temporal  good  or  ill  of  love.  He  had 
at  stake  his  whole  belief  in  himself,  and  he  was 
also  actuated  by  another  motive  which  he  scarce 
ly  admitted  in  his  own  thoughts. 

Convinced  he  was  that  Madelon  Hautville,  be 
lieving  as  she  did  that  he  had  forsaken  her  for 
honest  love  of  another,  would  hold  him  in  utter 


MADELON  289 

scorn  and  contempt  were  she  to  discover  him 
false  to  Dorothy  as  she  had  been  to  her ;  and  his 
very  love  of  her  love,  strangely  enough,  kept  him 
true  to  her  rival. 

So  he  went  to  see  Dorothy,  and  found  no  fault 
with  her  coldness.  The  wedding  preparations 
went  on,  and  at  last  the  day  came. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE  wedding  was  to  be  at  eight  o'clock  in  the 
evening,  and  nearly  all  the  village  was  bidden  to 
it — even  many  of  the  Unitarian  faction  who  had 
been  Parson  Fair's  old  parishioners.  At  half-past 
seven  o'clock  the  street  was  full  of  people.  The 
village  women  rustled  through  the  soft  dusk 
with  silken  whispers  of  wide  best  skirts.  Young 
girls  with  spring  buds  in  their  hair  flounced 
about  with  white  muslins,  and  fluttering  with 
ribbons,  flitted  along.  The  men,  holding  back 
firmly  their  best  broadcloth  shoulders,  marched 
past  in  their  creaking  Sunday  shoes.  Before 
eight  o'clock  the  fine  old  rooms  in  Parson  Fair's 
house  were  lined  with  faces  solemnly  expectant, 
as  the  faces  of  simple  country  folk  are  wont  to 
be  before  the  great  rites  of  love  and  death. 

The  women  sat  with  their  mitted  hands  folded 
on  their  silken  laps,  their  best  brooches  pinning 
decorously  their  fine -wrought  neckerchiefs,  their 
bosoms  filled  with  sober  knowledge  and  patient 
acquiescence.  The  young  girls  sat  among  them 
very  still,  with  the  stillness  of  unrest,  like  birds 
who  alight  only  to  fly,  their  soft  cheeks  burning, 


MADELON  291 

their  necks  and  arms  showing  rosy  through  their 
laces,,  their  little  clasped  fingers  full  of  pulses,, 
and  their  hearts  tumultuous  and  stirred  to  im 
agination  by  the  sweet  surmise  and  ignorance  of 
love.  They  looked  seldom  at  the  young  men, 
and  the  young  men  at  them,  as  they  sat  waiting. 
Still  there  were  some  who  had  learned  in  city 
schools  the  suavities  which  cover  like  clothes  the 
primal  emotions  of  life,  and  they  moved  about 
with  exchanges  of  fine  courtesies,  while  the  others 
looked  at  them  wondering. 

When  the  tall  clock  in  the  south  room  struck 
eight,  there  was  a  hush  among  these  few  who 
had  learned  to  flock  gracefully,  chattering  like 
birds,  bearing  always  the  same  aspect  to  one 
another,  without  regard  to  selfish  joys  or  pains. 
The  lawyer's  wife,  in  a  grand  gown  and  topknot 
of  feathers,  which  she  was  said  to  have  worn  to  a 
great  party  at  the  governor's  house  in  Boston, 
composed  to  majestic  approval  her  handsome 
florid  face,  and  stood  back  with  a  white-gloved 
hand  on  an  arm  of  each  of  her  daughters,  slender 
and  pretty,  and  unshrinkingly  radiant  in  the  faces 
of  the  doctor's  college-bred  son  and  his  visiting 
classmate.  The  doctor's  wife,  also,  who  had  come 
of  a  grand  family,  and  appeared  always  on  festive 
occasions  in  some  well-preserved  splendor  of  her 
maiden  days,  which  had  been  prolonged,  drew 
back,  spreading  out  with  both  hands  a  vast  ex 
panse  of  purple  velvet  skirt.  She  quite  eclipsed 


292  MADELO^ 

as  with  a  murky  purple  cloud  the  two  meek 
elderly  women  and  a  timid  young  girl  who  sat 
behind  her.  They  immediately  peered  around 
her  sumptuous  folds  with  anxious  eyes  lest  they 
might  lose  sight  of  the  bridal  party ;  but  the 
bridal  party  did  not  come. 

A  passageway  was  left  quite  clear  to  the  space 
between  the  windows  on  the  west  side  of  the 
room,  where  it  was  whispered  the  bride  and 
groom  were  to  stand,  and  the  people  all  pressed 
back  towards  the  walls  ;  but  no  one  came.  A  lit 
tle  hum  of  wondering  conversation  rose  and  fell 
again  at  fancied  stirs  of  entrance.  Folk  hushed 
and  nudged  each  other  a  dozen  times,  and  craned 
their  necks,  and  the  clock  struck  the  half-hour, 
and  the  bridal  party  had  not  come. 

In  a  great  chair  near  the  clear  space  between 
the  windows  sat  the  bridegroom's  mother,  with  a 
large  pearl  brooch  gleaming  out  of  the  black 
satin  folds  on  her  bosom.  Her  face,  between 
long  lace  lappets,  looked  as  clearly  pallid  and 
passively  reflective  as  the  pearls.  Not  a  muscle 
stirred  about  her  calm  mouth  and  the  smooth 
triangle  of  forehead  between  her  curtain  slants 
of  gray  hair.  If  she  speculated  deeply  within 
herself,  and  was  agitated  over  the  delay,  not  a 
restless  glance  of  her  steadily  mild  eyes  be 
trayed  it. 

People  wondered  a  little  that  she  should  not 
be  busied  about  the  bridal  preparations,  instead 


MADELON  293 

of  waiting  there  like  any  other  guest ;  but  it  was 
said  that  Dorothy  had  refused  absolutely  to  have 
any  helping  hands  but  those  of  her  old  black 
slave  woman  about  her.  It  was  known,  too,  that 
Dorothy  had  only  once  taken  tea  with  Burr's 
mother  since  the  engagement,  and  everybody 
speculated  as  to  how  they  would  get  on  together. 
Dorothy  had,  in  truth,  received  the  rigorously 
courteous  overtures  of  her  future  mother  with 
the  polite  offishness  of  a  scared  but  well-trained 
child,  and  the  proud  elder  woman  had  not  in 
creased  them. 

"  When  she  comes  here  to  live  I  shall  do  my 
duty  by  her,  but  I  shall  not  force  myself  upon 
her,"  she  told  Burr.  Burr's  mother  had  not 
seen  any  of  the  dainty  bridal  gewgaws,  but  that 
she  kept  to  herself.  People  glanced  frequently 
at  her  with  questioning  eyes  as  the  time  went  on  ; 
but  she  sat  there  with  the  gleam  of  her  personal 
ity  as  unchanged  in  her  face  as  the  gleam  of  the 
pearls  on  her  bosom. 

"Catch  her  looking  flustered!"  one  woman 
whispered  to  another.  After  the  clock  struck 
nine  a  long  breath  seemed  to  be  drawn  simulta 
neously  by  the  company  ;  it  was  quite  audible. 
Then  came  a  sharp  hissing  whisper  of  wonder  and 
consternation  ;  then  a  hush,  and  all  faces  turned 
towards  the  door.  Burr  Gordon,  his  face  stern 
and  white,  stood  there  looking  across  at  his 
mother.  She  rose  at  once  and  went  to  him  with 


294  MADELOX 

a  stately  glide,  and  they  disappeared  amid  a  dis 
tinct  buzz  of  curiosity  that  could  no  longer  be 
restrained. 

"  They've  gone  into  the  parson's  study/7  whis 
pered  one  to  another.  Some  reported,  upon  the 
good  authority  of  a  neighbor's  imagination,  that 
Parson  Fair  had  "  fallen  down  dead  ;"  some  that 
Dorothy  had  fainted  away  ;  some  that  the  black 
woman  had  killed  her  and  her  father. 

Meanwhile,  Burr  and  his  mother  went  into 
Parson  Fair's  study.  There  stood  the  minister 
by  his  desk,  with  his  proudly  gentle  brow  all  fur 
rowed,  and  his  fine,  long  scholar-fingers  clutching 
nervously  at  the  back  of  his  arm-chair.  He  cast 
one  glance  around  as  the  door  opened  and  shut, 
then  looked  away,  then  commanded  himself  with 
an  effort,  and  stepped  forward  and  bowed  cour 
teously  to  the  woman  in  her  black  satin  and 
pearls.  Elvira  Gordon  looked  from  one  to  the 
other,  and  the  two  men  followed  her  glances,  and 
each  waited  for  the  other  to  speak. 

"  Where  is  she  ?"  she  asked,  finally. 

"  She  is  up  in  her  chamber,"  replied  Parson 
Fair,  in  a  voice  more  strained  with  his  own  anxi 
ety  than  it  had  ever  been  in  the  pulpit  over  the 
sins  of  his  fellow-men.  "  I  know  not  what  to  say 
or  do — I  never  thought  that  daughter  of  mine — 
she  will  not  come — " 

Then  Elvira  Gordon  cast  a  quick,  sharp  glance 
at  her  son,  which  he  met  with  proud  misery  and 


MADELON  295 

resentment.  "  It  is  quite  true,  mother/'  he  said. 
"We  have  both  tried,  and  she  will  not  come." 

"Perhaps  a  woman — "  said  Parson  Fair.  "I 
wish  her  mother  were  alive/'  he  added,  with  a 
break  in  his  voice. 

"  I  will  go  and  see  her  if  you  think  it  is  best," 
said  Mrs.  Gordon.  In  her  heart  she  rebelled 
bitterly  against  seeming  to  plead  with  this  un 
willing  bride  to  come  to  her  son.  Had  she  not 
felt  guilty  for  her  son,  with  the  conviction  of 
his  own  secret  deflection,  she  would  never  have 
mounted  the  spiral  stairs  to  Dorothy  Fair's  cham 
ber  that  night.  Parson  Fair  led  the  way,  and 
Burr  followed.  The  people  stood  back  with  a 
kind  of  awed  curiosity.  Some  of  the  young  girls 
were  quite  pale,  and  their  eyes  were  dilated. 
Folk  longed  to  follow  them  up-stairs,  but  they 
did  not  dare. 

At  the  door  of  Dorothy's  chamber  crouched, 
like  a  fierce  dog  on  guard,  the  great  black  Afri 
can  woman.  When  the  three  drew  near  she 
looked  up  at  them  with  a  hostile  roll  of  savage 
eyes  and  a  glitter  of  white  teeth  between  thick 
lips.  The  parson  advanced,  and  she  sprang  up 
and  put  her  broad  back  against  the  door  and 
rolled  out  defiance  at  him  from  under  her  burr 
ing  tongue. 

But  he  continued  to  advance  with  unmoved 
front,  as  if  she  had  been  the  Satanas  of  his  ortho 
doxy,  which,  indeed,  she  did  not  faintly  image. 


296  MADELON 

She  moved  aside  with  a  savage  sound  in  her 
throat,  and  he  threw  the  door  wide  open.  There 
sat  Dorothy  Fair  before  them  at  her  dimity  dress 
ing-table,  with  all  her  slender  body  huddled  for 
ward  and  resting  seemingly  upon  her  two  bare 
white  arms,  which  encompassed  her  bowed  head 
like  sweet  rings.  Not  a  glimpse  of  Dorothy's 
face  could  be  seen  under  the  wide  flow  of  her 
fair  curls,  which  parted  only  a  little  over  the" 
curve  of  one  pink  shoulder.  Dorothy  wore  her 
wedding-gown  of  embroidered  India  muslin  ;  but 
her  satin  slippers  were  widely  separated  upon 
the  floor,  as  if  she  had  kicked  them  hither  and 
thither  ;  and  on  the  bed,  in  a  great,  careless, 
fluffy  heap,  lay  her  wedding-veil,  as  if  it  had  been 
tossed  there. 

Elvira  Gordon,  at  a  signal  from  Parson  Fair, 
entered  the  room  past  the  sullen  negress,  who 
rolled  her  eyes  and  muttered  low,  and  went  close 
to  the  girl  at  the  dressing-table. 

"  Dorothy  !"  said  Mrs.  Gordon. 

Dorothy  made  no  sign  that  she  heard. 

"  Dorothy,  do  you  know  it  is  an  hour  after  the 
time  set  for  your  wedding  ?" 

Dorothy  was  so  still  that  instinctively  Mrs. 
Gordon  bent  close  over  her  and  listened  ;  but  she 
heard  quite  plainly  the  soft  pant  of  her  breath, 
and  knew  she  had  not  fainted. 

Mrs.  Gordon  straightened  herself  and  looked 
at  her.  It  was  strange  how  that  delicate,  girlish 


MADELON  297 

form  under  the  soft  flow  of  fair  locks  and  mus 
lin  draperies  should  express,  in  all  its  half-sug 
gested  curves,  such  utter  obstinacy  that  it  might 
have  been  the  passive  unresponsiveness  of  mar 
ble.  Even  that  soft  tumult  of  agitated  breath 
could  not  alter  that  impression.  Wnen  Mrs. 
Gordon  spoke  again  her  words  seemed  to  echo 
back  in  her  own  ears,  as  if  she  had  spoken  in  an 
empty  room. 

"  Dorothy  Fair,"  said  she,  with  a  kind  of  sol 
emn  authority,  "neither  I  nor  any  other  human 
being  can  look  into  your  heart  and  see  why  you 
do  this  ;  and  you  owe  it  to  my  son,  who  has 
your  solemn  promise,  and  to  your  father,  whose 
only  child  you  are,  to  speak.  If  you  are  sick, 
say  so  ;  if  at  the  last  minute  you  have  a  doubt 
as  to  your  affection  for  Burr,  say  so.  My  son 
will  keep  his  promise  to  you  with  his  life,  but  he 
will  not  force  himself  upon  you  against  your 
wishes.  You  need  fear  nothing  ;  but  you  must 
either  speak  and  give  us  your  reason  for  this,  or 
get  up  and  put  on  your  wedding-veil  and  your 
shoes,  and  come  down,  where  they  have  been 
waiting  over  an  hour.  You  cannot  put  such  a 
slight  upon  my  son,  or  your  father,  or  all  these 
people,  any  longer.  You  do  not  think  what  you 
are  doing,  Dorothy." 

Mrs.  Gordon's  even,  weighty  voice  softened  to 
motherly  appeal  in  the  closing  words.  Dorothy 
remained  quite  silent  and  motionless.  Then 


298  MADELON 

Burr  gave  a  great  sigh  of  impatient  misery,  and 
strode  across  to  Dorothy,  and  bent  low  over  her, 
touching  her  curls  with  his  lips,  and  whispered. 
She  did  not  stir.  "Won't  you,  Dorothy?"  he 
said,  gently,  then  quite  aloud  ;  and  then  again, 
"Have  you  forgotten  what  you  promised  me, 
Dorothy?"  and  still  again,  "'Are  you  sick? 
Have  I  offended  you  in  any  way  ?  Can't  you  tell 
me,  Dorothy  ?" 

At  length,  when  Dorothy  persisted  in  her  si 
lence,  he  stood  back  from  her  and  spoke  with  his 
head  proudly  raised.  "I  will  say  no  more,"  he 
said ;  "I  have  come  here  to  keep  my  solemn 
promise,  and  be  married  to  you,  and  here  I  will 
remain  until  you  or  your  father  bid  me  go,  with 
something  more  than  silence.  That  may  be 
enough  for  my  pride,  but  'tis  not  enough  for  my 
honor.  I  will  go  back  to  your  father's  study, 
Dorothy,  and  wait  there  until  you  speak  and  tell 
me  what  you  wish." 

Burr  turned  to  go,  but  Parson  Fair  thrust  out 
his  arm  before  him  to  stop  him,  and  himself  came 
forward  and  grasped  Dorothy,  with  hardly  a  gen 
tle  hand,  by  a  slender  arm.  "Daughter,"  said 
Parson  Fair  in  a  voice  which  Dorothy  had  never 
heard  from  his  lips  except  when  he  addressed 
wayward  sinners  from  the  pulpit,  "I  command 
you  to  stop  this  folly  ;  stand  up  and  finish  dress 
ing  yourself,  and  go  down-stairs  and  fulfil  your 
promise  to  this  man  whom  you  have  chosen." 


MADELON  299 

The  black  woman  pressed  forward,  then  stood 
back  at  a  glance  from  her  master's  blue  eyes. 

Dorothy  did  not  stir ;  then  her  father  spoke 
again,,  and  his  nervous  hand  tightened  on  her 
arm.  "Dorothy,"  said  he,  "I  command  you  to 
rise  " —  and  there  was  a  great  authority  of  father 
hood  and  priesthood  in  his  voice,  and  even  Doro 
thy  was  moved  before  it  to  respond,  though  not 
to  yielding. 

Suddenly  she  jerked  her  arm  away  from  her 
father's  grasp,  and  stood  up,  with  a  convulsive 
nutter  of  her  white  plumage  like  a  bird.  She 
flung  back  her  curls  and  disclosed  her  beautiful 
pale  face,  all  strained  to  terrified  resolve,  and  her 
dilated  blue  eyes  "I  will  not!"  she  cried  out, 
addressing  her  father  alone,  "I  will  not,  father. 
I  have  made  up  my  mind  that  I  will  not." 

Then,  as  Parson  Fair  said  not  a  word,  only 
looked  at  her  with  stern  questioning,  she  went  on, 
shrill  and  fast,  "  I  will  not ;  no,  I  will  not !  No 
body  can  make  me  !  I  thought  I  would,  I  thought 
I  must,  until  this  last.  Now  when  it  comes  to 
this,  I  can  do  no  more.  I  will  not,  father." 

"  Why  ?"  said  Parson  Fair. 

"I  would  have  kept  rny  promise,  father.  I 
would  have  kept  it,  no  matter  if — I  would  have 
been  faithful  to  him  if  he — "  Suddenly  Dor 
othy  turned  on  Burr  with  a  gasp  of  terror  and 
defiance.  "I  would  never  have  done  this,  you 
know,"  she  cried;  "it  would  never  have  come 


300  MADELON 

to  this,  if  you  had  spoken  and  told  me  you  were 
innocent." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  child  ?"  said  Parson  Fair, 
sternly. 

"  He  would  not  tell  me  that  he  did  not  stab  his 
cousin  Lot,"  replied  Dorothy,  setting  her  sweet 
mouth  doggedly.  Her  blue  eyes  met  her  father's 
with  shrinking  and  yet  steadfast  defiance. 

"Dorothy,"  said  he,  "do  you  not  know  that 
he  is  innocent  by  his  cousin's  own  confession  ?" 

"Why,  then,  does  he  not  say  so?"  finished 
Dorothy.  "  How  do  I  know  who  did  it  ?  Made- 
Ion  Hautville  said  she  was  guilty,  then  Lot  Gor 
don  ;  and  Burr  would  not  deny  his  guilt  when  I 
asked  him.  How  do  I  know  which  ?  Madelon 
Hautville  was  trying  to  shield  him ;  I  am  not 
blind.  Then  Lot  liked  her.  How  do  I  know 
which  ?"  Suddenly  she  cried  out  to  Burr  so  loud 
that  the  people  in  the  entry  below  heard  her, 
"  Tell  me  now  that  you  are  innocent,  and  either 
your  cousin  Lot  or  Madelon  Hautville  guilty," 
she  demanded.  "  Tell  me  !" 

Burr,  white  and  rigid,  looked  at  her,  and  made 
no  reply.  "  Tell  me,"  she  cried,  in  her  sweet, 
shrill  voice,  "  tell  me  now  that  you  did  not  stab 
your  cousin  Lot,  and  Madelon  Hautville  spoke 
the  truth,  and  I  will  keep  my  promise  to  you, 
even  if  my  heart  is  not  yours." 

Parson  Fair  grasped  his  daughter's  arm  again. 
"  No  man  whom  you  have  promised  to  wed  should 


MADELON  301 

reply  to  such  distrust  as  this,"  he  said.  "  Doro 
thy,,  I  command  you  to  go  down -stairs  and  be 
married  to  this  man." 

Then  Dorothy  broke  away  from  him  with  a  wild 
shriek.  ' f  No,  I  will  not  marry  this  man  with  his 
cousin's  blood  on  his  soul !  I  will  not,,  father ; 
you  shall  not  make  me  !  I  will  not  !  Night  and 
day  I  shall  see  that  knife  in  his  hand.  I  will  not 
marry  him,  because  he  tried  to  kill  his  cousin 
Lot.  I  will  not,  I  will  not !"  The  black  woman 
pushed  between  them  with  a  savage  murmur  of 
love  and  wrath,  and  caught  her  mistress  in  her 
arms,  and  crooned  over  her,  like  a  wild  thing 
over  her  young. 

"  There  is  no  use  in  prolonging  this,  sir,"  Burr 
said  to  Parson  Fair. 

The  elder  man  looked  at  him  with  a  strange 
mixture  of  helpless  dignity  and  sympathy  and 
wrath.  "  You  know  that  I  have  no  share  in  this," 
he  said,  and  he  glanced  almost  piteously  from 
Burr  to  his  mother.  "  I  could  never  have  believed 
that  my  daughter — " 

"  We  will  say  no  more  about  it,  sir,"  responded 
Burr.  "  I  hold  neither  you  nor  your  daughter  in 
any  blame."  Then  he  offered  his  arm  to  his 
mother,  and  the  three  went  out  and  down-stairs, 
and  the  black  woman  clapped  to  the  chamber 
door  with  a  great  jar  upon  her  mistress,  whose 
calm  of  obstinacy  had  broken  into  wailing  hys 
terics  which  betokened  no  less  stanchness.  Par- 


302 

son  Fair,  Burr  Gordon,  and  his  mother,  at  the 
foot  of  the  stairs  among  the  curious  wedding- 
guests,  looked  for  a  second  at  one  another. 

The  parson's  fine  state  seemed  to  have  deserted 
him.  There  were  red  spots  on  his  pale  cheeks. 
His  long  hands  twitched  nervously.  "  I  will — 
inform  them,"  he  said,  huskily,  at  length,  but 
Burr  moved  before  him.  "  No,  sir  ;  I  will  do  it," 
he  said. 

Then  he  strode  into  the  great  north  parlor, 
where  the  more  important  guests  were  assembled, 
and  where  he  and  Dorothy  were  to  have  been  mar 
ried.  He  stood  alone  in  the  clear  space  between 
the  windows,  and  knew,  as  the  eyes  of  the  people 
met  his,  that  they  had  heard  Dorothy's  last  wild 
cry,  and  knew  why  she  would  not  marry  him.  He 
stood  for  a  second  facing  them  all  before  he  spoke, 
and  in  spite  of  the  shame  of  rejection  which  he 
felt  heaped  upon  him  by  them  all,  and  a  subtler 
shame  arising  from  his  own  heart,  in  spite  of  the 
fact  that  he  could  not  offer  any  defense,  or  do 
aught  but  bend  his  back  to  the  full  weight  of  his 
humiliation,  he  had  a  certain  majesty  of  de 
meanor.  Revolt  at  humiliation  alone  precipitates 
the  full  measure  of  it,  and  the  strength  which 
survives  defeat,  even  of  one's  own  convictions,  is 
of  a  good  quality.  Silence  under  wrongful  accusa 
tion  gives  the  bearing  of  a  hero. 

There  was  a  hush  over  the  assembly  so  com 
plete  that  it  seemed  as  if  the  very  personalities 


MADELON  303 

of  the  listeners  were  drawn  back  from  self -con 
sciousness  to  give  free  scope  for  sound.  When 
Burr  spoke,  everybody  heard. 

"  The  marriage  between  Dorothy  Fair  and  my 
self  is  broken  off,"  was  all  he  said.  Then  he 
went  out  of  the  room  as  proudly  as  if  his  bride 
had  been  by  his  side,  through  the  entry  to  the 
study.  Parson  Fair  and  his  mother  were  there. 
"  They  know  it,"  he  announced,  quite  calmly ; 
then  he  took  his  fine  wedding-hat  from  the  table. 

"Where  are  you  going  ?"  his  mother  demand 
ed,  quickly. 

"  To  walk  a  little  way."  Burr  turned  to  Par 
son  Fair.  "  I  beg  you  not  to  feel  that  you  must 
deal  severely  with  your  daughter  for  this,"  he 
said,  "for  she  does  not  deserve  it.  She  was  jus 
tified  in  asking  what  she  did,  and  in  feeling  dis 
trust  that  I  did  not  answer." 

(( If  a  wife's  faith  cannot  survive  her  husband's 
silence,  then  is  she  no  true  spouse,  and  'twas  the 
part  of  a  man  not  to  answer,"  said  this  Parson 
Fair,  who  had  all  his  life  followed  in  most  roads 
the  lead  of  his  womankind,  and  not  known  it, 
so  much  state  had  he  been  allowed  in  his  cap 
tivity. 

"She  was  justified,"  said  Burr,  "and  I  beg 
you,  sir,  not  to  visit  any  displeasure  upon  her. 
I  have  not  at  any  time  been  worthy  of  her,  al 
though  God  knows  had  she  not  cast  me  off,  and 
did  not  this  last,  with  what  I  remember  now  of 


304  MADELOX 

her  manner  for  the  last  few  weeks,  make  me  sure 
that  her  heart  is  no  longer  mine,  I  would  have 
lived  my  life  for  her,  as  best  I  could ;  and  will 
now,  should  she  say  the  word." 

With  that,  Burr  Gordon  thrust  on  his  wed 
ding-hat,  and  was  out  of  the  study  and  out  of 
the  south  door  of  the  house. 


CHAPTER   XXV 

IN  the  yard  was  drawn  up  in  stato,  behind  the 
five  white  horses,  the  grand  old  Gordon  coach, 
which  had  not  been  used  before  since  the  death 
of  Lot's  father.  Lot  had  insisted  upon  furnish 
ing  the  coach  and  the  horses  for  his  cousin's 
wedding.  The  man  who  stood  by  the  horses' 
heads  looked  up  at  Burr  in  a  dazed  way  when  he 
came  out  of  the  house  and  spoke  to  him. 

"When  my  mother  is  ready  you  can  take  her 
home,  Silas,"  said  Burr.  "Then  drive  over  to 
my  cousin's,  and  put  up  the  coach  and  the 
horses." 

The  man  gasped  and  looked  at  him.  "  Do  you 
hear  what  I  say  ?"  said  Burr,  shortly. 

The  man  gave  an  affirmative  grunt,  and  strove 
to  speak,  but  Burr  cut  him  short.  "Look  out 
for  that  bad  place  in  the  road,  before  you  get  to 
the  bridge,"  he  said,  and  went  on  out  of  the 
yard.  The  road  was  suddenly  full  of  departing 
wedding-guests,  fluttering  along  with  shrill  clat 
ter  of  persistently  individual  notes,  like  a  flock 
of  birds. 

Burr,  out  of  the  yard,  passed  along  through 
20 


306  MADELON 

their  midst  with  a  hasty  yet  dignified  pace.  He 
said  to  himself  that  he  would  not  seem  to  be  run 
ning  away.  He  looked  neither  to  the  right  nor 
left,  except  to  avoid  collisions  with  silken  and 
muslin  petticoats,  yet  he  was  conscious  of  the 
hush  of  voices  as  he  passed,  and  knew  that  they 
all  recognized  him  in  the  broad  moonlight. 

When  he  reached  the  lane  which  led  across  - 
lots  to  the  old  place,  he  plunged  into  it  by  a  sud 
den  impulse.  He  went  half-way  down  its  leafy 
tunnel  ;  then  he  stopped  and  sat  down  on  a 
great  stone  which  had  fallen  oil  the  bordering 
wall. 

Great  spiritual  as  well  as  great  physical  catas 
trophes  stun  for  a  while,  and  there  is  after  both 
a  coming  to  one's  self  and  an  examining  one's 
faculties,  as  well  as  one's  bones,  to  see  if  they  be 
still  in  working  order.  Burr  Gordon,  sitting 
there  on  his  stone  of  meditation,  in  the  moonlit 
dapple  of  the  lane,  came  slowly  to  a  full  realiza 
tion  of  himself  in  his  change  of  state,  and  strove 
to  make  sure  what  power  of  action  he  had  left 
under  these  new  conditions. 

His  first  thought  was  a  cowardly  one — that  he 
would  sell  out,  or  rather  give  up  his  estate  to  his 
cousin,  take  his  mother,  and  turn  his  back  upon 
the  village  altogether.  He  knew  what  he  had  to 
expect.  He  tasted  well  in  advance  the  miserable 
and  half  ludicrous  shame  of  a  man  who  has  been 
openly  jilted  by  a  woman.  He  tasted,  too,  the 


MADELOX  307 

covertly  whispered  suspicion  which  had  perhaps 
never  quite  departed,  and  which  now  was  surely 
raised  to  new  life  by  Dorothy's  loud  cries  of  ac 
cusation.  He  knew  that  he  was  utterly  defence 
less  under  both  shame  and  suspicion,  being  fet 
tered  fast  by  his  own  tardy  but  stern  sense  of 
duty  and  loyalty.  It  seemed  to  him  at  first  that 
he  would  be  crippled  beyond  cure  in  his  whole 
life  if  he  should  stay  where  he  was ;  and  then 
he  felt  the  spring  of  the  fighting  instinct  within 
him,  and  said  proudly  to  himself  that  he  would 
turn  his  back  upon  nothing.  He  would  brave 
it  all. 

There  was  a  light  wind,  and  now  and  then  the 
young  trees  in  the  lane  were  driven  into  a  soft 
tumult  of  whispering  leaves.  Burr  did  not  notice 
when  into  this  voice  of  the  wind  and  this  noise 
as  of  a  crowd  of  softly  scurrying  ghosts  there 
came  a  crisp  rustle  of  muslin  and  a  quick  foot 
step  up  the  lane.  He  only  looked  up  when  Made- 
Ion  Hautville  stopped  before  him  and  looked  at 
him  with  incredulous  alarm,  as  if  she  could  not 
believe  the  evidence  of  her  own  eyes. 

Dressed  like  a  bride  herself  was  Madelon  Haut 
ville,  in  a  sheer  white  gown,  which  she  had  fash 
ioned  for  herself  out  of  an  old  crape  shawl 
which  had  belonged  to  her  mother,  and  cun 
ningly  wrought  with  great  garlands  of  red  flow 
ers.  She  was  going  to  Burr  Gordon's  wedding, 
not  knowing  the  lateness  of  the  hour;  for  her 


308  MADELON 

brother  Richard  had  played  a  trick  upon  her, 
and  set  hack  the  clock  two  hours,  when -to  his 
great  wrath  she  would  not  stay  at  home.  The 
others  were  half  in  favor  of  her  going,  think 
ing  that  it  showed  her  pride ;  but  Richard  was 
sorely  set  against  it,  and  watched  his  chance,  and 
slipped  back  the  hands  of  the  clock  that  she 
should  be  too  late  to  see  the  wedding  of  the  man 
who  had  forsaken  her. 

Madelon  looked  at  Burr,  and  he  at  her,  and 
neither  spoke.  Then,  when  she  saw  surely  who 
it  was,  she  cried  out  half  in  wonder  and  half 
chidingly,  as  if  she  had  been  his  mother  reproach 
ing  him  for  his  tardiness  :  "  What  are  you  doing 
here,  Burr  Gordon  ?  Do  you  know  'tis  nearly 
eight  o'clock,  and  time  for  your  wedding  ?" 

"'Tis  nearly  ten," said  Burr,  "and  there  is  no 
wedding." 

"  Nearly  ten  ?" 

"Yes." 

"But  'twas  not  eight  by  our  clock." 

Burr  took  out  the  great  gold  timepiece  which 
had  belonged  to  his  father,  and  held  it  towards 
her,  and  she  saw  the  face  plainly  in  the  moon 
light. 

"What  does  this  mean  ?"  she  said;  and  then 
she  cried,  half  shrinking  away  from  him,  "  Are 
you  married  then  ?  Where  is  she  ?" 

"  Dorothy  Fair  is  at  home  in  her  chamber,  and 
I  am  not  married,  and  never  shall  be." 


MADELON  309 

"Why — what  does  this  mean,  Burr  Gordon  ?" 

"She  will  not  have  me,  and  —  no  blame  to 
her." 

"Will  not  have  you,,  and  the  people  there,  and 
the  hour  set !  Will  not  have  you  ?  Burr,  she 
shall  have  you  !  I  promise  you  she  shall.  I  will 
go  talk  to  her.  She  is  a  child,  and  she  does  not 
know — I  can  make  her  listen.  She  shall  have 
you,  Burr.  I  will  go  this  minute,  and  talk  to 
her,  and  do  you  come  after  me." 

Madelon  gave  a  forward  bound,  like  a  deer, 
but  Burr  sprang  up  and  caught  her  by  the  arm. 
"Why  do  you  stop  me,  Burr  Gordon?"  she  cried, 
trying  to  wrest  her  arm  away. 

"Do  you  think  I  have  no  manhood  left,  Made- 
Ion  Ilautville,  that  I  will  let  you,  you  beg  a 
woman  who  does  not  love  me  to  marry  me  ?" 

"  She  does  love  you,  she  shall  love  you  !" 

"  I  tell  you  she  does  not !"  Burr  spoke  with  a 
bitterness  which  might  well  have  come  from 
slighted  love,  and,  indeed,  so  complex  and  con 
tradictory  are  the  workings  of  the  mind  of  a 
man,  and  so  strong  is  the  bent  when  once  set  in 
one  direction,  that  not  loving  Dorothy  Fair,  and 
loving  this  other  woman  with  his  whole  heart, 
he  yet  felt  for  the  moment  that  he  would  rather 
his  marriage  had  taken  place  and  he  were  not 
free.  His  freedom,  which  he  knew  was  a  shame 
to  welcome,  galled  him  for  the  time  worse  than  a 
chain,  and  he  felt  more  injured  than  if  he  had 


310  MADELOX 

loved  this  girl  who  had  jilted  him;  for  some 
thing  which  was  more  precious  to  him  than  love 
had  been  slighted  and  made  for  naught. 

"She  does — you  are  mad,  Burr  Gordon  !  She 
was  all  ready  to  marry  you.  She  came  to  me  to 
help  on  her  wedding-clothes.  She  was  all  smil 
ing  and  pleased.  How  could  she  be  pleased  over 
her  wedding-clothes  if  she  did  not  love  you?  She 
does,  Burr  !  She  is  a  child — I  can  talk  to  her.  I 
will  make  her.  Let  me  go,  Burr  !  You  wait  here, 
and  not  fret.  Oh,  how  pale  you  look  !  I  tell  you, 
you  shall  have  her,  Burr  !" 

"  I  tell  you,  Madelon,  she  does  not  love  me, 
and  I  will  not  have  you  go." 

Madelon  stood  looking  at  him,  her  face  all  at 
once  changing  curiously  as  if  from  some  revela 
tion  from  withim.  She  remembered  suddenly  that 
old  scene  with  Eugene,  and  a  suspicion  seized 
her.  "  There's  somebody  else  I"  she  cried  out, 
fiercely.  "  There's  no  truth  in  her.  If  she  thinks 
— she  shall  not — nor  he — I  will  not  have  it  so  !" 

"  For  God's  sake,  Madelon,  don't !"  said  Burr, 
not  fairly  comprehending  what  she  said.  He  sat 
down  again  upon  the  stone,  and  leaned  his  head 
upon  his  hands.  In  truth  he  felt  dazed  and  help 
less,  as  if  he  had  reached  suddenly  the  mouth  of 
many  roads  and  knew  not  which  to  take.  The 
intricacy  of  the  situation  was  fairly  paralyzing  to 
an  order  of  mind  like  his,  which  was  wont  to 
grasp,  though  shrewdly  enough,  only  the  straight 


MADELOK  311 

course  of  cause  and  effect.  He  revolved  dizzily 
in  his  mind  the  fact  that  he  could  not  tell  Made- 
Ion  the  reason  which  Dorothy  had  given  for  her 
rejection  of  him,  and  the  conviction  Avas  fast 
gaining  upon  him  that  it  was  not  the  true  and 
only  reason.  He  held  fiercely  to  his  loyalty  to 
Madelon,  and  his  shammed  loyalty  to  Dorothy, 
and  his  slipping  clutch  of  loyalty  to  himself,  and 
knew  not  what  to  say  nor  what  course  to  take. 

Madelon,  as  he  settled  back  upon  the  stone  and 
bowed  his  head,  made  towards  him  one  of  those 
motions  which  the  body  has  kept  intact  from  the 
primitive  order  of  things,  when  it  was  free  to  obey 
Love  ;  then  she  stood  back  and  looked  at  him  a 
moment,  while  indignation  and  that  compassion 
which  is  the  very  holiness  of  love  swelled  high 
within  her.  Then  suddenly  she  leaned  forward 
against  him  in  her  white  robes,  with  the  soft  im 
petus  of  a  white  flowering  tree  driven  by  the 
wind,  and  put  her  arms  around  him,  and  drew 
his  unhappy  head  against  her  bosom,  and  stroked 
his  hair,  and  poured  out  in  broken  words  her 
wrath  against  Dorothy  Fair,  and  her  pity  for  him. 
And  all  this  she  did  in  utter  self-despite  and  for- 
getfulness,  not  caring  if  he  should  discover  how 
great  her  love  for  him  still  was,  believing  fully 
that  his  whole  heart  had  belonged  to  the  other 
girl,  and  was  breaking  for  her,  and  arguing  thence 
no  good  for  herself. 

"  She  shall  never  marry  him,  that  I  swear  to 


312  MADELOX 

you,  Burr,"  she  cried,  passionately,  "  and  in  time 
she  may  turn  to  you  again  ;  there  is  no  faith  in 
her." 

Burr  listened  a  while  bewildered,  not  fully 
knowing  nor  asking  what  she  meant,  letting  his 
head  rest  against  her  bosom,  as  if  he  were  a  child 
whom  she  comforted. 

"  Burr,  you  shall  have  her,  you  shall  have  her 
yet !"  she  said,  over  and  over,  as  if  Dorothy 
were  a  sweetmeat  for  which  he  longed,  until  at 
last  a  great  shame  and  resolution  seemed  to  go 
over  him  like  a  wave,  and  he  put  her  away  and 
rose  up. 

"Madelon/'  he  said,  "you  don't  know.  Listen. 
You  will  scorn  me  after  this — you  will  never  look 
at  me  again,  but  listen  :  Dorothy  must  never 
know,  for  all  the  slight  of  this  last  must  come 
from  her  and  not  from  me,  since  she  is  a  woman 
and  I  a  man;  but  you  shall  know  the  whole  truth. 
I  never  loved  Dorothy  Fair,  Madelon,  not  as  I 
love  you,  as  God  is  my  witness.  She  was  pretty 
to  look  at,  and  I  liked — but  you  cannot  under 
stand  the  weakness  of  a  man  that  makes  him 
ashamed  of  himself.  I  left  you,  and — I  went — 
courting  her  because  she  was  Parson  Fair's  only 
daughter,  and  I  was  poor,  and  that  was  not  all 
the  reason.  I  liked  her  pretty  face  and  her  pretty 
ways  well  enough,  but  all  the  time  it  was  you  and 
you  alone  in  my  heart ;  and,  knowing  that,  I  left 
you,  though  I  was  a  man.  I  turned  Judas  to  my 


MADELON  313 

own  self,  and  denied  and  would  have  sold  the 
best  that  was  in  me.  Now  you  know  the  truth, 
Madelon  Hautville." 

Madelon  looked  at  him.  Her  lips  parted,  as  if 
her  breath  came  hard. 

Burr  made  as  if  to  pass  on  without  another 
word,  but  she  held  out  her  hand  to  stop  him, 
though  she  did  not  touch  him. 

"Stop,  Burr/'  she  said,  with  a  strange,  almost 
oratorical  manner,  that  he  had  never  seen  in  her 
before.  It  was  almost  as  if  she  mounted  before 
his  eyes  a  platform  of  her  own  love  and  higher 
purposes.  "  Listen  to  me,"  she  said.  "  That 
night  when  I  was  in  such  terrible  anger  with  you 
that  for  a  second  I  would  have  killed  you,  I  put 
it  out  of  your  power  forever  to  do  anything  that 
could  turn  me  against  you  again.  I  broke  my 
own  spirit  that  night,  Burr.  The  wrong  I  would 
have  done  you  outweighs  all  you  ever  have  done  or 
ever  can  do  me.  There  is  no  wrong  in  this  world 
that  you  can  do  me,  if  I  will  not  take  it  so ;  and 
as  for  the  wrong  you  may  have  done  yourself— 
that  only  makes  me  more  faithful  to  you,  Burr." 

Burr  stood  looking  at  her,  speechless.  It  was 
to  him  as  if  he  saw  the  true  inner  self  of  the 
girl,  which  he  had  dimly  known  by  half -reveal- 
ings  but  had  never  truly  seen  before.  For  a 
minute  it  was  not  Madelon  Hautville  in  flesh 
and  blood  who  stood  before  him,  but  the  ghost 
of  her,  made  evident  by  her  love  for  him  ;  and 


314  MADELON 

his  very  heart  seemed  to  melt  within  him  with 
shame  and  wonder  and  worship.  "  Oh,  Made- 
Ion  !"  he  gasped  out,  at  length. 

But  Madelon  turned  away  then.  "  You  must 
go  home  now/'  said  she,  "  and  I  must.  Good 
night,  Burr." 

"Good-night,"  said  Burr,  as  if  he  repeated  it 
at  her  bidding. 

Then  they  passed  without  touching  each  other. 
Madelon  went  home  down  the  lane,  across  the 
fields,  and  Burr  went  out  in  the  silent  street, 
whence  all  the  wedding -guests  had  departed, 
and  homeward  also. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

IN  this  little  Vermont  village,  lying  among 
peacefully  sloping  hills,  away  from  boisterous 
river-courses,  there  was  small  chance  of  those 
physical  convulsions  which  sometimes  disturb 
the  quiet  of  generations.  The  roar  of  a  spring 
freshet  never  smote  the  ears  of  the  dwellers 
therein,  and  the  winters  passed  with  no  danger 
of  avalanches.  From  its  sheltered  situation 
destructive  storms  seldom  launched  them 
selves  upon  it  ;  the  oldest  inhabitant  could  re 
member  little  injury  from  lightning  or  hail  or 
wind. 

However,  there  is  no  village  in  this  world  so 
sheltered  in  situation  that  it  is  not  exposed  to 
the  full  brunt  of  the  great  forces  of  human  pas 
sion,  when  they  lash  themselves  at  times  into 
the  fury  of  storm.  It  was  hero  in  this  little 
village  of  Ware  Centre,  which  could  never  know 
flood  or  volcanic  fire,  as  if  a  sort  of  spiritual 
whirlpool  had  appeared  suddenly  in  its  midst. 
The  thoughts  of  all  the  people,  lying  down  upon 
their  pillows,  or  rising  for  their  daily  tasks,  cen 
tred  upon  it,  and  it  was  as  if  the  minds  of  all 


316  MADELON 

were  prone  upon  the  edge  of  it,  gazing  curiously 
into  the  vortex. 

The  Sunday  after  Burr  Gordon's  disastrous 
wedding-day  the  faces  of  all  the  people  on  their 
way  to  meeting  wore  the  same  expression,  in 
different  degrees  of  intensity.  One  emotion  of 
strained  curiosity  and  wonder  made  one  family 
of  the  whole  village.  The  people  thought  and 
spoke  of  only  one  subject ;  they  asked  each 
other  one  question — "Will  any  of  them  be  at 
meeting  ?"  The  Unitarian  church  was  nearly 
deserted  that  Sunday,  for  Parson  Fair's  former 
parishioners  returned  to  their  old  gathering 
place,  under  stronger  pressure,  for  the  time, 
than  religious  tenets. 

It  was  a  burning  day  for  May — as  hot  as  mid 
summer.  The  flowers  were  blossoming  visibly 
under  the  eyes  of  the  people,  but  they  did  not 
notice.  They  flocked  into  the  meeting-house 
and  looked  about  them,  all  with  the  same  ex 
pression  in  their  eyes. 

When  Burr  Gordon  and  his  mother  entered,  a 
thrill  seemed  to  pass  through  the  whole  congre 
gation.  Nobody  had  thought  they  would  come. 
Mrs.  Gordon,  gliding  with  even  pace,  softly  mur 
murous  in  her  Sunday  silk,  followed  her  son, 
who  walked  with  brave  front,  although  he  was 
undeniably  pale,  up  the  aisle  to  their  pew.  He 
stood  about  to  let  his  mother  enter,  meeting  the 
eyes  of  the  people  as  he  did  so  ;  then  sat  down 


MADELON  317 

himself,  and  a  long  glance  and  a  long  nudge  of 
shoulders  passed  over  the  meeting-house.  Burr 
and  his  mother  both  knew  it,  but  she  sat  in  un 
disturbed  serenity  of  pallor,  and  he  stirred  not  a 
muscle,  though  a  red  spot  blazed  out  on  each 
cheek. 

Madelon  Hautville  sat  in  the  singing  seats, 
but  he  never  looked  at  her  nor  she  at  him. 
There  were  curious  eyes  upon  her  also,  for  peo 
ple  wondered  if  Burr  would  turn  to  her  now 
Dorothy  Fair  had  jilted  him;  but  she  did  not 
know  it.  She  heeded  nobody  but  Burr,  though 
she  did  not  look  at  him,  and  when  she  stood  up 
in  the  midst  of  her  brothers  and  sang,  she  sang 
neither  to  the  Lord  nor  to  the  people,  but  to  this 
one  weak  and  humiliated  man  whom  she  loved. 
The  people  thought  that  she  had  never  sung  so 
before,  recognizing,  though  ignorantly,  that  she 
struck  that  great  chord  of  the  heart  whose  capa 
bility  of  sound  was  in  them  also.  For  the  time 
she  stood  before  and  led  all  the  actors  in  that 
small  drama  of  human  life  which  was  on  the 
village  stage,  and  in  which  she  took  involuntary 
part ;  and  the  audience  saw  and  heard  nobody 
but  her. 

Burr,  stiff  as  a  soldier,  at  the  end  of  his  pew, 
felt  his  heart  leap  to  hope  and  resolve  through 
the  sound  of  this  woman's  voice  in  the  old  or 
thodox  hymns,  and  laid  hold  unknowingly,  by 
means  of  it,  of  the  love  and  force  which  are  at 


318  MADELOX 

the  roots  of  things  for  the  strengthening  of  the 
world.  With  weak  and  false  starts  and  tardy 
retrogrades  he  had  woven  around  his  feet  a  laby 
rinth  of  crossing  paths  of  life,  but  now,  of  a  sud 
den,  he  saw  clearly  his  way  out.  He  trampled 
down  the  scruples  which  hampered  and  blinded 
him  like  thorns  and  had  their  roots  in  a  false 
pride  of  honor,  and  recognized  that  divine  call 
of  love  to  worship  which  simplifies  all  perplexi 
ties.  He  would  take  that  girl  singing  yonder 
for  his  wife,  if  she  were  indeed  so  generous- 
minded  after  all,  not  now,  but  later,  when  there 
could  be  no  possibility  of  slight  to  Dorothy  Fair. 
His  honest  work  in  the  world  he  would  do,  were 
it  in  the  ploughshares  or  the  wayside  ditches, 
with  no  striving  for  aggrandizement  through  un 
toward  ways,  and  so  would  he  humbly  attain  the 
full  dignity  of  his  being. 

When  Madelon  Hautville  stopped  singing  not 
one  in  the  meeting-house  had  seen  Burr  Gordon 
stir,  but  the  soul  in  him  had  surely  turned  and 
faced  about  with  a  great  rending  as  of  swathing 
wills  that  bound  it. 

Parson  Fair  preached  that  morning.  Great 
had  been  the  speculation  as  to  whether  he  would 
or  not.  When  he  stood  up  in  his  pulpit  and 
faced  the  crowded  pews  and  the  steely  glances 
of  curious  eyes  through  the  shifting  flutter  of 
fans,  he  was  as  austerely  composed  as  ever ;  but 
a  buzzing  whisper  went  through  the  audience 


MADELON  319 

like  a  veritable  bee  of  gossip.  "  He  looks  dread 
ful,"  they  hissed  in  each  other's  ears,  vith  nudges 
and  nods. 

All  the  principal  participants  in  the  village 
commotion  were  there  except  Lot  Gordon  and 
Dorothy  Fair.  Dorothy  had  not  come,  in  spite 
of  her  father's  stern  commands,  and  sterner  they 
had  been  than  any  commands  of  his  to  his  be 
loved  child  before.  Dorothy  had  cowered  before 
her  father,  in  utter  misery  and  trepidation,  after 
the  company  had  left  that  wedding -night,  but 
yielded  she  had  not — only  fallen  ill  again  of  that 
light  fever  which  so  easily  beset  her  under  stress 
of  mind. 

That  Sunday  morning,  striving  to  rise  and  go 
to  meeting  as  her  father  said,  and  being  in  truth 
willing  enough,  since  she  had  a  terrified  longing 
to  see  Eugene  Hautville  in  the  choir  and  ascer 
tain  if  he  were  angry  or  glad,  she  fell  back  weak 
and  dizzy  on  her  pillows,  and  the  doctor  was 
called.  Dorothy's  fever  ran  lightly,  as  all  ail 
ments  of  hers,  whether  mental  or  physical,  were 
wont  to  do  ;  and  yet  she  had  a  delicacy  of  organ 
ization  which  caused  her  to  be  shaken  sorely  by 
slight  causes.  A  butterfly  may  not  have  the 
capacity  for  despair,  but  the  touch  of  a  finger 
can  crush  it;  and  had  it  more  capacity,  there 
would  be  no  butterflies. 

It  was  a  full  month  before  Dorothy  was  able 
to  go  out  of  doors,  and  all  that  time  the  gossips 


320  MADELON 

were  cheated  out  of  the  sight  of  her,  and  her 
father  was  constrained  to  treat  her  with  a  sort  of 
conscience-stricken  tenderness,  in  spite  of  her 
grave  fault.  Her  mother  had  never  risen  from 
a  fever  which  seemed  akin  to  this ;  and  Dorothy, 
in  spite  of  his  stem  Puritan  creed,  was  yet  dearer 
to  him  than  that  abstraction  of  her  which  he 
deemed  her  soul. 

Looking  at  the  girl,  flushed  softly  with  fever, 
her  blue  eyes  shining  like  jewels,  as  she  lay  in 
her  white  nest,  he  knew  that  he  loved  her  life 
more  fiercely  than  he  judged  her  sins.  He  would 
turn  his  back  upon  her  and  go  out  of  her  cham 
ber,  his  black  height  bowed  like  a  penitent,  and 
down  to  his  study,  and  wrestle  there  upon  his 
knees  for  hours  with  that  earthly  and  natural  love 
which  he  accounted  as  of  the  Tempter,  yet  might 
after  all  have  been  an  angel,  and  of  the  Lord. 
And  when  Dorothy  came  weakly  down-stairs  at 
last,  with  the  great  black  woman  guarding  her 
steps  as  if  she  were  a  baby,  he  found  not  in  him 
self  the  power  of  stern  counsel  and  reproof  which 
he  had  decided  upon  when  she  should  have  left 
her  chamber. 

All  the  neighbors  knew  when  Dorothy  Fair 
first  stepped  her  foot  out  of  doors,  and  told  one 
another  suspiciously  that  she  did  not  look  very 
sick,  and  that  they  guessed  she  might  have  come 
out  sooner,  and  gone  to  meeting,  had  she  been 
so  minded. 


MADELON  321 

And  in  truth  the  girl,  beyond  slight  deflections 
in  the  curves  of  her  soft  cheeks,  and  a  wistful 
enlarging  and  brightening  of  her  blue  eyes,  as 
in  thoughtful  shadows,  was  not  much  changed. 
The  first  Sunday  when  she  appeared  in  the  meet 
ing-house  she  wore,  to  the  delight  and  scandal 
of  the  women,  one  of  the  new  gowns  and  hats 
of  her  bridal  outfit.  Dorothy  Fair,  in  a  great 
plumed  hat  of  peach-blow  silk,  in  a  pearly  silk 
gown  and  pink -silk  mitts,  in  a  white -muslin 
pelerine  all  wrought  with  cunning  needlework, 
sat  in  the  parson's  pew,  and  uplifted  her  lovely 
face  towards  her  father  in  the  pulpit,  and  nobody 
knew  how  her  whole  mind  and  fancy  were  set, 
not  upon  the  sermon,  but  upon  Eugene  Haut- 
ville  in  the  singing-seats  behind  her.  And  no 
body  dreamed  how,  as  she  sat  there,  she  held 
before  her  face,  as  it  were,  a  sort  of  mental  hand- 
mirror,  in  which  she  could  see  her  head  of  fair 
curls,  her  peach-blow  hat,  and  her  slender  white- 
muslin  shoulders  reflected  from  Eugene's  dark 
eyes.  The  fall  of  every  curl  had  she  studied 
well  that  morning,  and  the  folds  of  the  muslin 
pelerine  over  her  shoulders.  And  when  the  con 
gregation  arose  for  the  hymns  and  faced  about 
towards  the  singers,  then  did  Dorothy  let  her 
blue  eyes  seek,  with  an  innocent  unconscious 
ness,  as  of  blue  flowers,  which  would  have  de 
ceived  the  very  elect,  Eugene's  face. 

But  his  black  eyes  met  hers  with  no  more  fiery 
21 


322  MADELOK 

glances.  Eugene  never  even  looked  at  her,  but 
sang,  with  stern  averted  face,  which  was  paler  and 
thinner  than  Dorothy's,  though  he  had  had  no  ill 
ness  save  of  the  spirit.  In  vain  Dorothy  sought  his 
eyes,  with  her  blue  appealing  ones,  during  every 
hymn ;  in  vain  once  or  twice  during  the  sermon 
she  even  cast  a  glance  around  her  shoulder  with 
a  slight  fling  of  her  curls  aside,  and  a  little  shiver, 
as  if  she  felt  a  draught.  Eugene  never  looked 
her  way  that  she  could  see. 

When  the  long  service  was  over,  Dorothy,  with 
sly,  watchful  eyes,  quickened  her  pace,  and  strove 
so  to  manage  that  she  and  Eugene  should  emerge 
from  the  meeting-house  side  by  side.  But  he 
was  striding  far  ahead,  with  never  a  backward 
glance,  when  she  came  out,  lifting  daintily  her 
pearly  skirts.  Burr  was  near  her,  but  him  she 
never  thought  of,  even  to  avoid,  and  his  mother's 
stately  aside  movement  was  not  even  seen  by 
her.  She  courtesied  prettily  to  those  who  met  her 
face  to  face,  from  force  of  habit,  and  went  on 
thinking  of  no  one  but  Eugene. 

Again,  in  the  afternoon,  Dorothy  went  to  meet 
ing,  though  her  pulses  began  to  beat,  with  a  slight 
return  of  the  fever,  and  again  she  strove  with  her 
cunning  maiden  wiles  to  attract  this  obdurate 
Eugene,  and  again  in  vain.  That  night  Dorothy 
lay  and  wept  awhile  before  she  fell  asleep,  and 
dreamed  that  she  and  Eugene  were  a-walking  in 
the  lane  and  that  he  kissed  her.  And  when  she 


MADELOK  323 

awoke,  blushing  in  the  darkness,  she  resolved  that 
she  would  go  a-walking  in  the  lane  on  every  pleas 
ant  day,  in  the  hope  that  the  dream  might  come 
true. 

And  Mistress  Dorothy  Fair,  with  many  eyes  in 
the  neighbors'  windows  watching,,  went  pacing 
slowly,  for  her  delicate  limbs  as  yet  did  not  bear 
her  strongly,  day  after  day  down  the  road  and  into 
the  lane,  and,  with  frequent  rests  upon  wayside 
stones,  to  the  farther  end  of  it.  And  yet  she  did 
not  meet  Eugene  therein,  and  her  dream  did  not 
come  true. 

But  it  happened  at  last;  about  the  middle  of  the 
month  of  June,  when  the  great  red  and  white 
roses  in  the  dooryards  were  in  such  full  bloom 
that  in  another  day  they  would  be  past  it  and  fall, 
that  Dorothy  and  Eugene  met  in  the  lane ;  for 
there  is  room  enough  in  time  for  most  dreams  to 
come  true,  and  for  the  others  there  is  eternity. 

That  afternoon  Dorothy  had  gone  forth  as 
usual,  but  she  said  to  herself  that  he  would  not 
come;  and  half-way  down  the  lane  she  ceased 
peering  into  the  green  distances  for  him,  and  sat 
herself  down  on  a  stone,  and  leaned  back  against 
the  trunk  of  a  young  maple,  and  shut  her  eyes 
wearily,  and  told  herself  in  a  sort  of  sad  peni 
tence  that  she  would  look  no  more  for  him,  for 
he  would  not  come. 

The  grass  in  the  lane  was  grown  long  now,  with 
a  pink  mist  over  the  top  of  it ;  the  trees  at  the 


324  MADELON 

sides  leaned  together  heavy  with  foliage,  and  the 
bordering  walls  were  all  hidden  under  bushes  and 
vines.  Everywhere  on  bush  and  vine  were  spikes 
and  corymbs  of  lusty  blossoms.  Birds  were  call 
ing  to  their  mates  and  their  young ;  the  locusts 
were  shrilling  out  of  depths  of  sunlight.  Dor 
othy,  in  the  midst  of  this  uncontrolled  passion  of 
summer,  was  herself  in  utter  tune  and  harmony 
with  it.  She  was  just  as  sweet  and  gracefully 
courtesying  among  her  sisters  as  any  flower  among 
the  host  of  the  field ;  and  she  had  silently  and 
inconsequently,  like  the  flower,  her  own  little  lust 
of  life  and  bloom  which  none  could  overcome, 
and  against  which  she  could  know  no  religion. 
This  Dorothy,  meekly  leaning  her  slender  shoul 
ders  against  the  maple-tree,  with  her  blue  eyes 
closed,  and  her  little  hands  folded  in  her  lap, 
could  no  more  develop  into  aught  towards  which 
she  herself  inclined  not  than  a  daisy  plant  out  in 
the  field  could  grow  a  clover  blossom.  Moreover 
her  heart,  which  had  after  all  enough  of  the  sweet 
ness  of  love  in  it,  opened  or  shut  like  the  cup  of 
a  sensitive  plant,  with  seemingly  110  volition  of 
hers  ;  therefore  was  she  in  a  manner  innocently 
helpless  and  docile  before  her  own  emotions  and 
her  own  destiny. 

She  sat  still  a  few  minutes  and  kept  her  eyes 
closed.  Then  she  thought  she  heard  a  stir  down 
the  lane,  but  she  would  not  open  her  eyes  to  look, 
so  sadly  and  impatiently  sure  was  she  that  he 


MADELON  325 

would  not  come.  Even  when  she  knew  there 
was  a  footstep  drawing  near  she  would  not  look. 
She  kept  her  eyes  closed,,  and  made  as  if  she 
were  asleep ;  and  some  one  passed  her,  and  she 
would  not  look,  so  sure  was  she  that  it  was  not 
Eugene. 

But  that  afternoon  Eugene  Hautville,  who  had 
gone  all  this  time  the  long  way  to  the  village, 
felt  his  own  instincts,  or  the  natural  towardness 
of  his  heart,  too  strong  for  him.  Often,  watch 
ing  from  a  distance  across  the  fields,  he  had  seen 
a  pale  flutter  of  skirts  in  the  lane,  and  knew  well 
enough  that  Dorothy  was  there,  and  had  turned 
back ;  but  this  time  he  walked  on.  When  he 
came  to  Dorothy  he  cast  one  glance  at  her,  then 
set  his  face  sternly  and  kept  on,  with  his  heart 
pulling  him  back  at  every  step.  Dorothy  did  not 
open  her  eyes  until  he  had  fairly  passed  her,  and 
then  she  looked  and  saw  him  going  away  from  her 
without  a  word.  Then  she  gave  a  little  cry  that 
no  one  could  have  interpreted  with  any  written 
language.  She  called  not  Eugene  by  his  name  ; 
she  said  no  word ;  but  her  heart  gave  that  ancient 
cry  for  its  lover  which  was  before  all  speech;  and 
that  human  love -call  drowned  out  suddenly  all 
the  others. 

But  when  Eugene  stopped  and  turned,  Dorothy 
blushed  so  before  his  eyes  that  her  very  neck  and 
arms  glowed  pink  through  her  lace  tucker  and 
sleeves.  She  shrank  away,  twisting  herself  and 


326  MADELO^ 

hiding  her  face,  so  that  he  could  see  naught  of 
her  but  the  flow  of  her  muslin  skirts  and  her  curl 
ing  fair  locks. 

Eugene  stood  a  minute  looking  at  her.  His 
dark  face  was  as  red  as  Dorothy's.  He  made  a 
motion  towards  her,  then  drew  back  and  held  up 
his  head  resolutely. 

"  It  is  a  pleasant  day,"  he  said,  as  if  they  were 
exchanging  the  everyday  courtesies  of  life ;  and 
then  when  she  made  no  reply,  he  added  that  he 
hoped  she  was  quite  recovered  from  her  sickness. 

And  then  he  was  pressing  on  again,  white  in 
the  face  now  and  wrestling  fiercely  with  himself 
that  he  might,  as  it  were,  pass  his  own  heart 
which  stood  in  the^way;  but  Dorothy  rose  up, 
with  a  sob,  and  pressed  before  him,  touching  his 
arm  with  her  slender  one  in  her  lace  sleeve,  and 
shaking  out  like  any  flower  the  rose  and  laven 
der  scent  in  her  garments. 

"  I  want  to  speak  to  you,"  she  said,  and  strove 
in  vain  to  command  her  voice. 

Eugene  bowed  and  tried  to  smile,  and  waited, 
and  looked  above  her  head,  through  the  tree 
•branches  into  the  field. 

"I  want  to  know  if  —  you  are  angry  with  me 
because — I  would  not — marry  Burr,"  said  Doro 
thy,  catching  her  breath  between  her  words. 

"  I  told  you  that  you  had  no  reason — that  he 
was  not  guilty,"  Eugene  said,  with  a  kind  of 
stern  doggedness  ;  and  still  he  did  not  look  at  her. 


MADELON  327 

"I  could  not  marry  —  him/'  Dorothy  panted, 
softly. 

"I  told  you  you  had  no  reason/'  Eugene  said 
again,  as  if  he  were  saying  a  lesson  that  he  had 
taught  himself. 

"  Are  you  angry — with  me  because  I  could  not 
marry  him  ?"  Dorothy  asked,  with  her  soft  per 
sistency  in  her  own  line  of  thought,,  and  not  his. 

Then  Eugene  in  desperation  looked  down  at 
her,  and  saw  her  face  worn  into  sweet  wistful- 
ness  by  her  illness,  her  dilated  eyes  and  lips  part 
ed  and  quivering  into  sobs,  like  a  baby's. 

"I  am  not  angry,  but  I  encourage  no  woman 
to  be  false  to  her  betrothal  vows,"  he  said,  and 
strove  to  make  his  voice  hard  ;  but  Dorothy  bent 
her  head,  and  the  sobs  came,  and  he  took  her  in 
his  arms. 

"  Are  you  angry  with  me  ?"  Dorothy  sobbed, 
piteously,  against  his  breast. 

"No,  not  with  you,  but  myself,"  said  Eugene. 
"It  is  all  with  myself.  I  will  take  the  blame  of 
it  all,  sweet/'  and  he  smoothed  her  hair  and 
kissed  her  and  held  her  close  and  tried  to  com 
fort  her  ;  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  could  in 
deed  take  all  the  blame  of  her  inconstancy  and 
distrust,  and  could  even  bear  his  self-reproach 
for  her  sake,  so  much  he  loved  her. 

"  I  would  not  have  married  Burr — even  if — he 
had  told  me  —  he  was  innocent,"  Dorothy  said, 
after  a  while.  She  was  hushing  her  sobs,  and 


328  MADELON 

her  very  soul  was  smiling  within  her  for  joy  as 
Eugene's  fond  whispers  reached  her  ears. 

"Why?"  said  Eugene. 

"Because  —  you  came  first  —  when  you  looked 
at  me  in  the  meeting-house/'  Dorothy  whispered 
back.  Then  she  suddenly  lifted  her  face  a  little, 
and  looked  up  at  him,  with  one  soft  flushed  cheek 
crushed  against  his  breast,  and  Eugene  bent  his 
face  down  to  hers.  They  stood  so,  and  for  a 
minute  had,  indeed,  the  whole  world  to  their  two 
selves,  for  love  as  well  as  death  has  the  power  of 
annihilation  ;  and  then  there  was  a  stir  in  the 
lane,  a  crisp  rustle  of  petticoats  and  a  hiss  of 
whispering  voices ;  and  they  started  and  fell 
apart.  There  in  the  lane  before  them,  their  eyes 
as  keen  as  foxes,  with  the  scent  of  curiosity  and 
gossip,  their  cheeks  red  with  the  shame  of  it,  and 
their  lips  forming  into  apologetic  and  terrified 
smiles,  stood  Margaret  Bean  and  two  others — the 
tavern-keeper's  wife  and  the  wife  of  the  man  who 
kept  the  village  store. 

For  a  second  the  three  women  fairly  cowered 
beneath  Eugene  Hautville's  eyes,  and  Margaret 
Bean  began  to  stammer  as  if  her  old  tongue  were 
palsied.  Then  Eugene  collected  himself,  made 
them  one  of  his  courtly  bows,  turned  to  Dorothy 
with  another,  offered  her  his  arm,  and  walked 
away  with  her  out  of  the  lane,  before  the  eyes  of 
the  prying  gossips. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

IT  was  four  o'clock  that  summer  afternoon 
when  the  three  women  —  Margaret  Bean,  the 
tavern-keeper's  wife,  and  the  storekeeper's  wife 
—who  had  folloAved  Dorothy  and  Eugene  into 
the  lane  to  pry  upon  them  set  forth  to  communi 
cate  by  word  of  mouth  the  scandalous  proceed 
ings  they  had  witnessed ;  and  long  before  mid 
night  all  the  village  knew.  The  women  crept 
cautiously  at  a  good  distance  behind  Dorothy 
and  Eugene  out  of  the  lane,  and  watched,  with 
incredulous  eyes  turning  to  each  other  for  con 
firmation,  the  pair  walk  into  Parson  Fair's  house 
together.  Then  they  could  do  no  more,  since 
their  ears  were  not  long  enough,  and  each  went 
her  way  to  tell  what  she  had  seen. 

All  the  neighbors  knew  when  Eugene  Haut- 
ville  left  Parson  Fair's  house  that  afternoon,  but 
their  knowledge  stopped  there.  Nobody  ever 
discovered  just  what  was  said  within  those  four 
walls  when  Dorothy — who,  soft  plumaged  though 
she  was,  had  flown  in  the  faces  of  all  her  deco 
rous  feminine  antecedents  and  her  goodly  teach 
ing — confronted  her  father  with  her  new  lover  at 
her  side. 


330  MADELOST 

It  was  safe  enough  to  assume,  for  one  who 
knew  her  and  them  well,  that  the  two  men  did 
finally  turn  and  protect  her  and  shelter  her  each 
against  himself,  and  his  own  despite,  as  well  as 
one  another.  After  that  Eugene  Hautville  was 
seen  every  Sunday  night  and  twice  in  the  week 
going  into  Parson  Fair's  house,  and  the  candles 
burned  late  in  the  north  parlor. 

The  banns  were  published  in  a  month's  time. 
Some  accounted  it  unseemly  haste,  after  the 
other  banns  which  had  come  to  naught,  and  some 
said  'twas  better  so,  and  they  blamed  not  Parson 
Fair  for  placing  such  a  flighty  and  jilting  maid 
safe  within  the  pale  of  wedlock — and  they  guessed 
he  was  thankful  enough  to  find  a  husband  for 
her,  even  if  'twas  one  of  the  Hautvilles. 

However,  Eugene  was  held  in  somewhat  more 
of  esteem  than  the  others,  since  he  had  in  his 
own  right  a  snug  little  sum  in  bank  which  had 
come  to  him  from  an  uncle  whose  name  he  bore. 
When  it  was  known  that  Eugene  had  bought  the 
old  Squire  Damon  place,  a  goodly  house  with  a 
box-bordered  front  walk,  and  a  pillared  front 
door,  and  would  take  his  bride  home  to  it,  pub 
lic  favor  became  quite  strong  for  him.  Folk 
opined  that  he  would,  even  if  he  was  a  Haut 
ville,  make  full  as  good  a  husband  as  Burr,  and 
that  Dorothy  Fair  would  have  the  best  of  the 
bargain  all  around.  While  many  held  Dorothy 
in  slight  esteem  for  her  instability  and  delicacy, 


MAUELON  331 

and  thought  she  was  no  desirable  helpmeet  for 
any  man,,  some  were  of  the  opinion  that  she  had 
shown  praiseworthy  judgment  and  shrewdness  in 
jilting  Burr  for  Eugene. 

Dorothy  this  time  made  small  show  of  her 
wedding,  and  was  married  in  her  father's  study 
with  only  the  necessary  witnesses  and  no  guests. 
Eugene  Hautville  had  chafed.  Dorothy  also, 
with  her  feminine  desire  for  all  minor  details 
of  happiness,  was  aggrieved  that  she  could  never 
now  appear  before  the  public  gaze  in  all  the 
splendor  of  her  wedding-gear.  But  Parson  Fair 
stood  firm  for  once,  and  would  have  it  so. 

All  the  watchful  neighbors  saw  wras,  after 
nightfall  and  moonrise,  Parson  Fair's  door  open, 
and  the  bride  and  groom  appear  for  a  second  in 
a  golden  shaft  of  light  which  flashed  into  gloom 
at  the  closing  of  the  door,  and  left  there  two  shad 
ows,  as  if  the  story  of  their  life  and  love  had  al 
ready  been  told  and  passed  into  history.  And 
then  the  neighbors  saw  them  move  up  the  road 
with  long  vanishing  flutters  of  the  bride's  white 
draperies,  and  the  great  black  woman,  steadying 
a  basket  against  her  hip,  in  their  wake,  follow 
ing  her  mistress  like  a  faithful  dog,  with  per 
haps  the  most  unselfish  love  of  all. 

The  black  woman  favored  Eugene  more  than 
she  had  ever  favored  Burr,  perhaps  because  she 
was  a  true  slave  of  love,  and  leaned  with  the  secret 
leanings  of  her  mistress's  heart  against  all  words 


332  MADELON 

of  mouth,  obeying  her  commands  with  a  fuller 
understanding  of  them  than  Dorothy  herself. 

When  this  new  lover  came  a -courting,  the 
African  woman  had  always  greeted  him  at  the 
door  with  that  wide,  sudden  smile  of  hers,  at  once 
simple,  like  a  child's,  and  wild,  like  the  grin  of  an 
animal ;  and  her  voice,  in  her  thick  jargon,  was 
nearly  as  softly  rich  to  him  as  to  Dorothy.  More 
over  she  kept  no  longer  jealous  watch  at  the  door 
of  the  room  where  the  lovers  sat,  and  was  fond 
of  treating  the  young  man  with  little  cakes  which 
she  made  with  honey,  whose  like  was  to  be  eaten 
nowhere  else  in  the  village. 

After  Dorothy  and  Eugene  were  wedded  they 
faded  into  comparative  insignificance  in  the 
thoughts  of  the  villagers,  which  were  then  cen 
tred  upon  Burr  Gordon  and  Madelon.  The  cur 
tain  went  down  upon  Eugene  and  his  bride  as 
upon  any  pair  of  Avedded  lovers  in  his  Shakespeare 
book. 

Burr  was  in  exceedingly  ill  repute,  but  he  did 
not  himself  know  it.  Many  of  his  old  friends 
treated  him  coolly,  but  he  attributed  that  to  the 
embarrassed  sympathy  and  constraint  which  they 
naturally  felt  towards  him  in  his  position.  He 
thought  they  avoided  him  because  they  knew  well 
that  he  would  suspect  even  friendliness  lest  it 
contain  a  pity  which  would  hurt  his  pride ;  and 
he  thanked  them  for  it.  But  the  truth  was,  that 
outcry  of  Dorothy's  against  him  on  the  wedding- 


MADELON  333 

night  had  lashed  up  into  a  hurricane  all  the  sus 
picions  which  Lot's  avowal  had  stilled.  They  did 
away  easily  enough  with  the  force  of  Lot's  state 
ment,  for  there  are  many  theories  to  furnish  skin- 
fits  for  every  difficulty,  if  one  searches  in  the 
infinity  of  possibilities. 

Lot's  true  reason  none  fathomed,  for  it  was  be 
yond  their  sounding-lines  of  selfish  curiosity;  but 
they  found  another  which  seemed  to  meet  the 
needs  of  the  case  as  well. 

Lot,  they  said,  had  bargained  with  Burr  to 
give  up  all  claim  to  Madelon,  and  he  would  set 
him  free  by  confessing  an  attempt  at  suicide. 
Margaret  Bean,  it  was  reported,  had  seen  the 
letter  which  Lot  had  written  to  Burr  in  prison. 
When  Madelon,  who,  half  crazed  by  anxiety  about 
her  lover,  had  wrongfully  accused  herself  to  save 
him,  had  seen  him  turn  to  her  rival  and  scorn 
her  after  his  release,  she  had  accepted  Lot  in  a 
rage  of  pride  and  jealousy,  as  he  had  planned  for 
her  to  do.  The  breaking  off  of  the  marriage  be 
twixt  her  and  Lot  they  mostly  attributed  to  the 
simple  cause  he  had  mentioned — his  failing  health 
—though  some  thought  that  he  had  hesitated 
about  marrying  into  the  Hautville  family  when  it 
came  to  it. 

Suspicion  had  been  for  a  time  somewhat  hushed 
against  Madelon,  the  more  so  that  she  had  been 
seen,  since  Dorothy  had  jilted  Burr,  to  pass  him 
with  scarcely  a  nod,  and  was  popularly  supposed 


334  MADELOlSr 

to  hold  an  Indian  grudge  against  him,  and  to  be 
still  anxious  to  wed  his  cousin  Lot. 

However,  the  tide  soon  turned  again.  On  the 
Sunday  after  the  banns  between  Dorothy  and 
Eugene  had  been  published,  Burr  had  been  seen 
to  walk  home  openly  with  Madelon  from  evening 
meeting;  and  it  was  soon  known  that  he  was 
courting  her  regularly. 

Then  darker  whispers  were  circulated.  People 
said  now  that  they  were  accomplices  in  attempted 
crime.  That  black  atmosphere  of  suspicion  and 
hatred,  which  gathers  nowhere  more  easily  than 
in  a  New  England  town,  was  thick  around  Burr 
and  Madelon.  They  breathed,  though  as  yet  it 
was  in  less  degree,  the  same  noxious  air  as  did 
the  persecuted  Quakers  and  witches  of  bygone 
times.  The  gases  which  lie  at  the  bottom  of 
human  souls,  which  gossip  and  suspicious  imag 
inations  upstir,  are  deadlier  than  those  at  the 
bottoms  of  old  wells.  Still  Madelon  and  Burr 
knew  nothing  of  it,  nor  Burr's  mother,  nor  Lot, 
nor  any  of  the  Hautville  men.  The  attitude  of 
Madelon's  father  and  brothers  towards  herself 
and  Burr  had  done  much  to  strengthen  suspicion. 
High  voices  and  strange  remarks  had  been  over 
heard  by  folk  strolling  casually,  of  a  pleasant 
evening,  past  the  Hautville  house. 

In  truth,  at  first  old  David  Hautville  and  all 
his  sons  except  Eugene  had  risen  against  Burr 
and  Madelon,  all  their  pride  in  arms  that  she 


MADELON  335 

should  return  to  this  man  who  had  once  forsaken 
her  for  another.  But  later  they  had  yielded, 
for  their  pride  was  undermined  by  their  own 
gloomy  convictions  as  to  Madelon,  which  they 
confided  not  to  one  another.  However,  the  boy 
Richard  still  greeted  Burr  surlily,  with  a  fierce 
black  flash  under  frowning  brows,  and  scarcely 
spoke  to  Madelon  at  all  until  the  day  before  her 
marriage.  That  was  set  some  two  months  after 
Dorothy's. 

Burr  and  Madelon,  during  the  days  of  their 
betrothal,  were  as  closely  beset  by  spies  on  every 
hand  as  a  party  of  Madelon's  old  kindred  might 
have  been,  encamped  in  a  wooded  country,  where 
every  bush  veiled  savage  eyes  and  every  tree 
stood  in  front  of  a  foeman,  but  they  did  not 
know  it.  Folk  knew  when  Mrs.  Gordon  went 
to  visit  her  son's  betrothed,  though  'twas  on  a 
dark  evening.  They  knew  what  she  wore,  and 
how  long  she  stayed.  They  knew  when  Made- 
Ion  returned  her  visit ;  they  knew,  to  remember, 
in  many  cases,  more  details  of  their  daily  lives 
than  Burr  and  Madelon  themselves. 

Madelon  had  few  wedding  preparations  to 
make.  The  wedding-garments  which  she  had 
stitched  with  sorrow  for  her  marriage  with  Lot 
would  serve  her  now.  She  employed  her  time 
in  increasing  still  further  the  household  stores 
of  linen  for  her  father's  and  brothers'  use,  when 
she  should  be  gone,  and  in  making  a  great  stock 


336  MADELON 

of  sweet-sauce,  jelly,  and  cordials  from  the  fruits 
and  berries  of  the  season. 

One  afternoon  in  late  summer,,  when  the  high 
blackberries  were  ripe,  Madelon  set  forth  with  a 
great  basket  on  her  arm.  A  fine  cordial,  good 
for  many  ills,  she  knew  how  to  make  from  the 
berries,  and  had  planned  to  brew  a  goodly  quan 
tity  this  year.  She  went  down  the  road  a  way, 
then  over  some  bars,  with  her  hands  on  the 
highest  and  a  spring  like  a  willow  branch  set 
free,  across  a  pasture  where  some  red  cows  were 
grazing,  then  over  another  set  of  bars,  into  a 
rough  and  shaggy  land  sloping  gradually  into  a 
hill.  Here  the  high  blackberries  grew  in  great 
thorny  thickets,  and  Madelon  pressed  among  them 
warily  and  began  picking.  She  had  not  picked 
long — indeed  the  bottom  of  her  basket  was  not 
covered — when  she  heard  a  rustle  in  the  bushes 
behind  her  and  looked  over  her  shoulder  hur 
riedly,  and  there  was  Lot  Gordon. 

Lot  came  forward  from  a  cluster  of  young 
firs,  parting  the  rank  undergrowth  with  the 
careless  wonted  movement  of  one  who  steers 
his  way  among  his  own  household  goods.  Well 
used  to  all  the  wild  disorder  of  out-doors  was 
Lot  Gordon,  and  could  have  picked  his  way  of  a 
dark  night  among  the  stones  and  bushes  and 
trees  of  many  a  pasture  and  woodland.  More 
over,  Lot,  uprising  from  the  great  nest  which 
he  had  hollowed  out  for  himself  from  a  sweet  fern 


MADELON  337 

growth  under  the  balsam  firs,  exhaling  their 
fragrant  breath  of  healing,  and  coming  into 
sight,  made  better  show  than  he  had  ever  done 
in  his  own  book-walled  study. 

Here,  where  the  minds  of  other  men  swerved 
him  and  incited  him  not,  where  only  Nature 
herself  held  him  in  leading-strings  with  un 
searchable  might  or  was  laid  bare  before  his  daring 
eyes  and  many  a  secret  discovered,  Lot  Gordon 
gained  his  best  grace  of  home.  The  balsam 
firs  framed  him  with  more  truth  than  the  door 
of  his  own  dwelling.  To  Madelon,  as  he  came 
out  from  them,  he  looked  more  a  man  than  he 
had  ever  done ;  for  all  unconsciously  to  her 
mind  of  strong  and  simple  bent,  he  had  seemed 
at  times  scarce  a  man  but  rather  some  strange 
character  from  a  book,  which  had  gotten  life 
through  too  strong  imagining. 

Moreover  to-day  his  likeness  to  Burr  came 
out  strongly.  Madelon  saw  the  cant  of  his 
head  and  swing  of  his  shoulders,  with  a  half 
sense  of  shame  that  he  was  not  Burr,  and  yet 
with  a  sudden  understanding  of  him  that  she 
had  never  felt  before.  She  had  not  seen  him 
since  her  betrothal  to  Burr.  She  thought  to 
herself  that  he  was  thinner,  and  that  the  red 
flush  on  his  cheeks  was  the  flush  of  fever  and  not 
of  the  summer  sun. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Lot  ?"  she  said.  Madelon's 
cheeks  were  a  splendid  reel ;  her  green  sunbon- 


338  MADELON 

net  hung  by  its  strings  low  on  her  neck,  and  her 
head,  with  black  hair  clinging  to  her  temples  in 
moist  rings,  was  thrust  out  from  the  green  tangle 
of  vines  like  a  flower.  When  Lot  did  not  answer 
at  once,,  but  stood  pale  and  trembling,  as  if  an  icy 
wind  had  struck  him,  before  her,  she  pulled  the 
pricking  vines  loose  from  her  dress,  and  came 
out.  "How  do  you  do,  Lot?"  she  said,  again. 
Still  Lot  did  not  answer,  and  after  a  minute  she 
turned  with  impatient  dignity  as  if  to  enter  her 
fastness  again  ;  but  then  Lot  spoke. 

"Like  mankind,"  he  said,  "'tis  not  well,  and 
it  tends  to  death,  but  we  were  born  with  a  lash  at 
our  backs  to  do  it." 

Madelon  knit  her  brows  impatiently,  for  this 
was  his  old  talk,  that  savored  to  her  of  ink  and 
parchment  and  thoughts  laid  up  in  studied  guise, 
like  mummies.  Then  she  noted  his  poor  face, 
and  again  the  look  like  Burr,  Avhich  caused  her 
heart  to  melt  with  the  fancy  of  her  love  in  like 
case,  and  she  said,  with  that  gracious  kindness 
which  became  her  well,  that  it  was  a  pleasant 
day,  and  the  smell  of  the  balsam  fir  was  good  for 
him. 

But  Lot  looked  at  her  with  his  great  eyes  set  in 
hungry  hollows,  and  answered  her  in  that  stilted 
speech  which  she  liked  not,  trying  to  smile  his 
old  mocking  smile  with  his  poor  lips,  which  only 
trembled  like  a  child's  when  tears  are  coming. 
"  There  are  rivers  of  honey  and  gardens  of  spices, 


MADELON  339 

and  branches  dropping  balm,"  said  Lot,,  "where 
a  man  can  walk  but  his  soul  cannot  follow  him. 
His  soul  waits  outside  and  strives  to  taste  the 
sweet  when  he  swallows  it,  and  smell  the  balm 
and  the  spices  when  he  breathes  them  in,  but 
cannot ;  and  that  is  only  good  for  a  man  which 
is  good  for  his  soul." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Madelon, 
shortly. 

"I  mean  that  I  am  outside  all  the  good  of  this 
world,  since  the' one  good  which  I  crave  and  can 
not  have  is  the  gate  to  all  the  rest/'  said  Lot. 
Then  suddenly  he  cried  out  passionately,  lifting 
up  his  face  to  the  sky,  ee  0  God,  why  need  it  be 
so  ?  Why  need  a  man  be  a  bond  -  slave  to  one 
hunger  ?  Why  need  this  one  woman  be  the  an 
gel  with  the  flaming  sword  before  all  the  little 
pleasures  I  used  to  taste  and  love  ?  Why  need  she 
come  between  me  and  the  breath  of  the  woods, 
and  the  incense  of  the  fields,  and  their  secrets 
which  were  to  me  before  my  own,  so  I  can  take 
no  more  delight  in  them  ?" 

Madelon  looked  at  him  half  in  pity,  half  in 
proud  resentment.  "If  it  is  so,"  she  said,  "it 
was  not  of  my  own  accord  I  came ;  you  know 
that,  Lot  Gordon.  I  meant  no  harm  to  you,  and 
the  harm  that  I  did  you  brought  upon  yourself. 
I  would  not  have  come  here  to-day  if  I  had 
known  you  were  here  and  that  it  would  disturb 
you." 


340  MADELON 

"You  could  not  have  helped  coming,"  said 
Lot.  "I  have  been  here  since  morning,  and  you 
have  been  here  all  the  while." 

"Why  do  you  talk  so,  Lot  Gordon  ?"  cried 
Madelon,  angrily,  for  Lot's  covert  meanings  fret 
ted  her  straightforwardness  beyond  endurance. 
"You  know  that  I  have  just  come  here  \" 

"You  came  here  when  I  did,"  said  Lot,  "when 
the  fields  were  dewy.  You  held  up  your  skirts 
and  stepped  daintily.  I  went  ahead  and  you  fol 
lowed,  high-kilted,  pointing  your  steps  among 
the  wet  grasses  like  a  dove.  Had  I  looked  over 
my  shoulder  I  could  have  seen  you,  but  I  looked 
not  lest  the  power  of  flight  might  be  in  you  like 
the  dove." 

"I  shall  go  away  if  you  talk  like  this.  I  will 
not  stay  here  and  listen  to  it ;  you  know  I  was 
not  here,"  said  Madelon,  and  she  paled  a  little, 
for  she  almost  thought,  used  to  his  fanciful  talk 
though  she  were,  that  Lot  had  gone  mad. 

"We  walked  towards  the  sun,"  persisted  Lot, 
"but  you  were  in  my  shadow  and  needed  not  to 
cast  down  your  eyes.  I  saw  some  red  flowers, 
but  I  did  not  pick  them  for  you,  and  I  heard  you 
stop  and  break  the  stems  as  you  came  after. 
.When  we  reached  the  shade  of  the  firs  there  I 
sat  down,  but  I  left  the  space  there,  where  the 
needles  are  smoothest  and  thickest,  for  you,  and 
there  you  sat  too,  all  day." 

"  Lot  Gordon !" 


MADELOK  341 

"  You  need  not  mind,,  Madelon,  for  all  day  I 
looked  not  over  my  shoulder  once.  I  saw  not 
your  face,  nor  touched  your  lips,  nor  your  hand, 
nor  even  the  fold  of  your  dress.  I  harmed  you 
not,  even  in  my  dreams,  dear." 

Madelon,  standing  quite  free  of  the  clinging 
blackberry  vines,  held  up  her  dark  head  like  an 
empress,  and  looked  at  him.  In  truth  she  felt 
little  pity  for  Lot  Gordon  then,  for  she  liked  not 
being  made  to  follow  other  than  Burr  even  in  a 
man's  dreams.  Still,  when  she  spoke  it  was  not 
unkindly,  for  in  spite  of  this  jealousy  of  herself 
for  Burr,  and  in  spite  of  her  inability  to  under 
stand  such  worship  of  herself,  when  she  was 
spent  in  worship  of  another,  she  remembered 
how  she  had  nearly  taken  the  life  of  this  man, 
and  how  he  had  striven  to  shield  her,  though 
against  her  will,  and  on  hard  and  selfish  condi 
tions,  and  how  he  had  at  last  sacrificed  himself 
to  set  her  free. 

"Lot,"  said  she,  "there  must  be  no  more  of 
this.  I  am  almost  your  cousin's  wife.  You  have 
no  right."  And  then  she  repeated  it  passionately. 
"I  say  you  have  no  right  to  love  me  like  this,  if 
I  do  not  love  you,  Lot  Gordon.  I  will  have  no 
other  man  but  Burr  think  me  at  his  heels.  I 
will  follow  him  till  the  day  of  my  death,  but  no 
other.  I  would  only  have  married  you  to  save 
his  life  —  you  know  that.  You  know  I  never 
loved  you.  You  have  no  right." 


342  MADELON 

"The  right  of  love  is  every  man's  who  sets 
not  himself  before  it,"  returned  Lot,  with  sad 
dignity.  "  I  will  not  yield  that  even  for  love  of 
you,  Madelon ;  but  myself  shall  be  pushed  yet 
farther  out  of  sight,  I  promise  you,  and  you  shall 
be  pestered  no  more,  child.  Go  on  with  your 
berry-picking." 

A  great  mound  of  rock  uplifted  itself  like  the 
swelling  crouch  of  some  fossil  animal  among  the 
sweet  ferns  and  the  wild  scramble  of  vines.  Lot 
sank  down  upon  it  panting  for  breath.  He  leaned 
his  head  wearily  forward  between  his  hands.,  his 
elbows  resting  on  his  knees. 

Madelon  looked  at  him  hesitatingly;  she  opened 
her  mouth  as  if  to  speak,  then  was  silent.  She 
looked  at  the  high  vines,  black  with  fruit,  then 
at  the  field  beyond,  as  if  half  minded  to  go  away 
and  leave  them. 

Finally  she  fell  to  picking  again  without  a 
word.  Lot  coughed  once,  but  he  did  not  speak. 
Madelon  kept  glancing  at  him  as  she  picked. 
Compunction  and  pity  softened  more  and  more 
her  fiery  heart,  the  more  so  since  she  felt  the 
guilt  of  happiness  in  the  face  of  the  woe  of  an 
other  upon  her.  Finally  she  said,  with  that 
fond  reversion  to  the  little  homely  truths  and 
waysides  of  life  with  which  the  feminine  mind 
strives  often  to  comfort,  that  she  would  put  up 
for  him  a  jug  of  her  blackberry  cordial,  and  fur 
thermore  that  she  hoped  his  cough  was  better. 


MADELON"  343 

She  said  it  with  half -constrained  kindness,  not 
looking  up  from  her  berry  -  picking ;  but  Lot 
lifted  his  head  and  thanked  her  and  said  the 
cough  was  nearly  cured,  with  eagerness  to  re 
spond  to  grace,  like  a  child  who  has  been  chid 
den. 

Then  he  watched  her  with  bright  eyes  as  she 
picked,  his  breath  coming  hard  and  quick. 
"  Madelon  !"  he  said,  and  stopped. 

"What,  Lot?" 

"You  remember  —  the  gewgaws  which  I  — 
showed  you,  Madelon — the  feathers  and  ribbons 
and  satins/ and  the  other  things  ?  You  cared 
not  for  them  then.  Will  you  have  them  now,  for 
your  wedding-gift  ?" 

"No,  Lot/7  said  Madelon,  quickly.  "I  thank 
you,  but  I  cannot  take  them  ;  I  have  enough." 

"Why  not?" 

"I  have  enough." 

"There  is  no  need  for  you  to  tell  me  why," 
said  Lot.  "  A  woman  like  you  would  almost 
veil  herself  from  her  own  eyes  for  the  sake  of  a 
lover,  so  great  is  her  jealousy.  The  thoughts 
and  the  dreams  with  which  I  bought  the  gew 
gaws  profane  them  in  your  eyes  while  I  am 
alive." 

"  I  do  not  need  them,  and  I  cannot  take  them, 
Lot,"  said  Madelon,  steadily. 

Lot  said  no  more.  He  leaned  his  head  upon 
his  hands  again.  Madelon  could  hear  his  pant- 


344  MADELON 

ing  breath.  She  resolved  that  she  would  go  away 
across  the  fields,  down  the  road  a  piece,  to  an 
other  berry  patch  that  she  knew  of.  Still  she 
did  not  go.  One  of  those  impulses  which  seem 
to  come  from  authority  outside  one's  self,  or  else 
from  some  hidden  springs  of  motion  which  we 
know  not  of,  had  seized  her.  She  looked  at  Lot 
and  moved  softly  away  a  few  steps,  holding  her 
skirts  clear  of  the  vines.  Then  she  paused  and 
looked  again,  and  was  away  again.  Her  face  was 
resolute  and  wary,  as  if  she  saw  something  which 
she  feared  and  loathed,  and  yet  would  brave. 
Then  she  went  close  to  Lot,  and  stood  still  over 
him  a  minute. 

"Lot,"  she  said. 

He  looked  up  at  her,  wonderingly.  "Are  you 
sick,  Madelon  ?"  he  cried,  and  would  have  risen, 
but  she  motioned  him  back  and  spoke,  turning 
her  face  away  the  while. 

"Once  I  asked  Burr  to  give  me  the  kiss  that 
I  would  have  killed  him  for,"  said  she,  in  a 
voice  so  sharpened  by  her  stress  of  spirit  that  it 
might  have  come  out  of  the  flames  of  martyrdom. 
"  Now  I  ask  you  to  give  me  the  kiss  that  I  al 
most  took  your  life  for." 

"Madelon!" 

"It  is  all  I  can  do  to  make  amends,"  said  she. 
Then  she  looked  full  at  him,  and  did  not  shrink 
when  she  met  his  eyes,  though  her  face  grew 
white  before  the  mad  longing  in  them. 


MADELON  345 

Lot  stood  up  and  leaned  towards  her,  and  she 
stood  waiting.  Then  he  threw  out  his  hands,  as 
if  he  would  push  her  back,  and  turned  away. 
"You  owe  me  no  amends/'  he  said,  hoarsely. 
"The  wound  that  you  gave  me  was  my  just  de 
sert  for  striving  to  take  what  you  were  not  will 
ing  to  give." 

"Your  life  is  your  life,"  said  she,  steadily, 
"and  I  almost  took  it  away  from  you.  I  would 
do  this  in  token  of  repentance  for  that  and 
whatever  other  harm  I  have  done  you  unwit 
tingly." 

"You  owe  me  no  amends,  and  I  will  take 
none,"  said  Lot,  again. 

Then  he  faced  about  towards  her,  and  she 
started  and  looked  at  him,  wondering  and  half 
in  awe,  for  suddenly  the  love  in  the  heart  of  the 
man  showed  itself  in  his  face  like  a  light,  and  it 
was  almost  as  if  she  saw,  unbelieving  and  deny 
ing,  her  own  transfigured  image  in  his  eyes. 

"  Good-bye,  Madelon,"  said  Lot. 

"  Good-bye,"  she  returned,  faintly,  and  looked 
at  him  for  the  first  time  in  all  her  life  without  the 
thought  of  Burr  between  them. 

But  that  Lot  did  not  know,  and  stood  a  mo 
ment  gazing  at  her  as  a  man  gazes  at  one  beloved 
under  the  shadow  of  long  parting,  striving  to 
gain  possession  of  somewhat  to  hold  and  cherish 
aside  from  the  conditions  of  the  flesh.  Then  he 
said  good-bye  again,  and  went  away,  with  that 


346  MADELON 

soft  winding  glide  of  his  through  the  under 
brush  which  he  might  have  learned  from  the 
wild  dwellers  in  the  woods,  and  was  out  of  sight 
through  the  violet  glooms  of  the  firs. 


CHAPTER    XXVIII 

THE  night  before  Madelon  was  married,,  as  if 
by  some  tacit  understanding  of  peace  and  har 
mony,  the  Hautvilles  came  together  for  a  concert 
in  the  great  living-room.  Not  one  had  said  to 
another,  "  This  is  Madelon's  last  night  at  home, 
and  we  have  been  wroth  with  her  ;  let  us  bury  the 
hatchet,  and  raise  our  voices  with  one  accord  in 
our  old  songs ; "  but  one  impulse  had  seemed  to 
move  them  all,  as  one  wind  moves  the  forest  trees 
who  are  kin  to  one  another,  and  they  were  all 
together  at  twilight,  even  Eugene  and  his  bride. 

Burr  Gordon  came  also,  but  he  and  Madelon 
did  not  sit  apart  that  evening.  The  weather  was 
cool,  even  for  late  September,  and  an  early  frost 
was  threatened.  A  great  fire  blazed  on  the  hearth. 
Burr  and  Dorothy,  on  the  settle  in  the  chimney- 
corner,  listened  to  the  Hautville  chorus,  and  Burr 
looked  always  at  Madelon  and  Dorothy  at  Eugene. 
The  Hautvilles  stood  together  before  the  fire, 
old  David  with  his  bass-viol  at  his  side,  like  the 
wife  of  his  bosom ;  Louis  holding  his  violin  on 
his  shoulder,  like  a  child,  pressing  his  dark  cheek 
against  it,  and  Eugene  and  Abner  and  Richard 


348  MADELON" 

and  Madelon  uplifting  their  voices  in  the  old 
songs  and  fugues. 

The  doors  and  windows  were  shut.  Nobody 
heard  nor  saw  Lot  Gordon  when  he  crept  like 
a  fox  round  the  house,  and  came  under  a  win 
dow  and  rested  his  chin  on  the  sill  and  remained 
there  looking  at  Madelon.  She  wore  that  night 
a  soft  gown  of  crimson  wool,  which  clung  about 
her  limbs  and  her  bosom,  and  showed  her  bare 
throat  swelling  with  song  into  new  curves  which 
were  indeed  those  of  music  itself.  Lot,  as  he 
looked  at  her,  saw  her  with  the  full  meaning  of 
her  beauty  as  never  Burr  could,  and  as  she  could 
never  see  herself,  for  there  is  no  looking-glass  on 
earth  like  a  vain  love  when  it  rises  above  the  slight 
of  its  own  desire.  Greater  praise  than  she  would 
ever  know  again  in  her  whole  life  went  up  for 
Madelon  outside  that  window,  as  she  sang,  but 
she  neither  knew  it  nor  missed  anything  when 
Lot  went  away. 

At  ten  o'clock  the  concert  ceased.  Lot  slunk 
away  noiselessly,  and  soon  Eugene  and  Dorothy 
went  home,  and  Burr,  lingering  for  a  good-night 
kiss  or  two  in  the  door. 

Madelon  set  bread  to  rise  that  night,  and  ful 
filled  her  little  round  of  nightly  tasks  for  the  last 
time.  Her  father  and  brothers  went  to  bed  and 
left  her  there — all  but  Richard.  He  remained  in 
a  corner  of  the  settle,  his  slim  length  flung  out 
carelessly,  his  head  tipped  back  as  if  he  were 


MADELOK  349 

asleep ;  but  his  black  eyes  flashed  bright  under 
their  lids  at  his  sister  whenever  she  did  not  look 
at  him.  Madelon  said  not  a  word  until  her  tasks 
were  done ;  then  she  came  and  stood  in  front  of 
Richard^  and  looked  at  him,,  frowning  a  little,  for 
her  pride  was  stung  at  his  treatment  of  her,  but 
holding  out  her  hand.  "  Can't  you  bid  me  good 
night,  Richard  ?"  said  she,  and  tried  to  smile  at 
him  with  that  old  loving  comradeship  which  he 
had  disowned. 

The  boy  maintained  his  sullen  silence  for  a 
moment,  and  Madelon  waited.  Then  suddenly 
he  cried,  "  Good-night/'  with  sharp  intonations, 
like  the  response  of  a  surly  dog,  and  sprang  up 
and  thrust  something  hard  into  her  hand,  with 
such  roughness  that  it  hurt  her,  and  she  started. 

' '  'Tis  a  wedding-present  for  you,"  Richard  said, 
savagely,  with  averted  face.  "  I  thought  the  one 
I  gave  you  before  would  not  serve  for  two  wed 
dings.  Though  there  be  but  one  bride,  there 
should  be  different  gifts/' 

Madelon  gave  one  look  at  Richard  ;  then  she 
opened  her  hand,  and  there  on  her  reddened 
palm  lay  a  little  gold  pencil,  which  the  boy  must 
have  spent  all  his  little  savings  to  buy.  Made- 
Ion  held  it  out  to  him.  "  Take  it  back,"  said  she  ; 
"I  want  no  presents  with  words  like  that  to 
sweeten  them." 

Richard's  clenched  hand  hung  by  his  side.  He 
shook  his  head  sullenly. 


350  MADELON 

"Take  it!"  said  Madelon ;  but  he  made  no 
motion  to  do  so. 

"Then  I  shall  let  it  fall  on  the  floor/'  said 
Madelon. 

"  Let  it,"  returned  Richard,  and  forthwith  the 
little  gold  pencil  rolled  on  the  floor  under  the 
settle,  and  Madelon  turned  away  with  a  white 
face.  But  before  she  had  reached  the  door  Rich 
ard  was  at  her  side  and  his  hand  on  her  arm. 
"  Oh,  Madelon  !"  he  said,  striving  to  keep  the 
sobs  back.  Then  Madelon  turned  and  laid  a 
hand  on  each  of  his  shoulders,  and  held  him 
away,  looking  at  him. 

"Why  did  you  speak  to  me  like  that?"  said 
she  ;  and  then,  without  waiting  for  an  answer, 
drew  the  boy's  head  down  to  her  bosom,  and  held 
it  there  a  moment,  stroking  his  hair.  "  If  ever 
you  are  sick  after  I  am  gone,"  said  she,  "I  will 
come  and  take  care  of  you ;  and  if  you  don't  get 
good  things  to  eat  I  will  see  to  that,  too  ;"  and 
then  she  kissed  Richard's  dark  head,  and  put  him 
away  gently,  bidding  him  with  a  tender  laugh  "not 
to  be  a  baby,"  and  went  over  to  the  settle  and 
picked  up  the  little  gold  pencil,  and  praised  it  and 
said  she  would  treasure  it  all  her  life. 

And  then  she  bade  Richard  follow  her  into  the 
best  room,  and  opened  the  carved  oak  chest  and 
displayed  six  beautiful  shirts  made  of  linen, 
which  she  had  herself  spun  and  woven  and 
wrought  with  finest  needlework  in  bands  and 


MADELON  351 

bosoms,  for  a  parting  gift  to  him,  because  he  was 
the  nearest  of  all  her  brothers,  though  she  must 
not  say  so.  "  The  others  have  shirts  enough/' 
said  she  ;  "  I  have  seen  to  that,  for  I  have  meant 
to  do  my  duty  to  you  all,  but  none  of  the  others 
have  bosoms  and  wristbands  stitched  like  these, 
and  the  linen  is  extra  fine." 

That  night  Eichard  would  not  go  to  his  cham 
ber,  which  he  shared  with  his  brother  Louis,  lest 
he  wake  and  spy  his  face  flushed  with  tears,  but 
crept  stealthily  back  down-stairs,  and,  all  unbe 
known  to  any  one,  lay  all  night  on  the  settle  in 
the  living-room.  He  slept  little,  and  often  waked 
and  wept  in  the  darkness  like  a  child  rather  than 
one  of  the  fiery  Hautville  brothers. 

When  wrath  with  a  beloved  one  is  stilled  in  the 
human  heart  and  love  takes  its  place,  it  is  with  a 
threefold  increase,  a  great  rending  of  spirit,  and 
a  cruel  turning  of  weapons  against  one's  self. 
Eichard  was  one  who  would  always  deal  with  en 
tireties,  being  capable  of  no  divisions  nor  subtle 
ties  of  praise  or  blame.  Whereas  his  anger  had 
been  fierce  against  his  sister  that  she  should  love 
and  marry  the  man  who  had  flouted  her,  now  it 
was  turned  wholly  against  himself  for  his  injus 
tice  and  ill-treatment  of  her.  He  racked  him 
self  with  the  memory  of  his  surly  words  and 
looks  ;  and  those  six  shirts  of  fine  linen,  with  the 
cunning  needlework  in  band  and  bosom,  seemed 
the  veritable  scriptural  coals  of  fire  on  his  head. 


352  MADBLOH 

Also  good  and  simple  reasons  for  his  sister's 
course  came  to  him  as  he  lay  there  and  influ 
enced  him  still  more.  "  She  had  it  in  her  mind 
to  kill  him,  though  'twas  the  other  she  struck/' 
he  said  to  himself-;  "'tis  only  fit  that  she  should 
make  amends  to  him  for  that  and  keep  his  house 
for  him,  and  hake  and  brew  and  spin  and  weave 
for  him."  Richard  in  the  darkness  nodded  his 
head  in  agreement  with  his  own  argument,  and 
yet  he  hated  Burr  as  well  as  ever,  and  the  next 
morning  when  he  saw  him  stand  beside  his  sister 
before  Parson  Fair,  he  clenched  his  slender  brown 
hands  until  the  sinews  stood  out,  and  his  black 
eyes  still  flashed  hostility  at  him.  Yet  when  he 
looked  at  Madelon's  face  his  own  softened,  and 
he  set  his  mouth  hard  to  keep  back  the  quiver 
in  it.  Madelon  wore  not  the  silk  of  green  and 
gold  in  which  she  had  planned  to  be  wedded  to 
Lot ;  that  she  could  not  bring  her  mind  to  do, 
since  the  old  wretched  dreams  and  imaginations 
seemed  to  cling  to  the  garment  and  desecrate  it 
for  this.  She  wore  instead  a  sober  gown  of  a 
satin  sheen  with  the  rich  purplish-red  hue  of  a 
plum,  which  set  off  the  dark  bloom  of  her  face 
by  suggestion  rather  than  contrast ;  but  all  the 
boy  Richard  noted  of  her  costume  was  his  little 
gold  pencil  slung  011  the  long  gold  chain  around 
her  neck. 

Madelon  and  Burr  were  married  quite  early  in 
the  morning,  in  the  best  room  of  the  Hautvill^ 


MADELON  353 

house,  and  nobody  outside  the  two  families  was 
bidden  to  the  wedding.  After  the  marriage  the 
bride  tied  on  a  white-muslin  apron  and  passed 
cake  and  currant  wine ;  and  the  great  Hautvilles 
sitting  in  sober  state  around  the  room,  Elvira 
Gordon  in  her  black  satin  and  pearls,  pretty  Dor 
othy,  and  Parson  Fair  partook. 

Then  the  bride  went  up  to  her  chamber  and 
put  on  a  pelisse  of  stuff  like  her  gown,  lined  with 
canary-colored  satin,  and  a  little  cap  of  otter  and 
a  great  muff  which  she  had  fashioned  herself  out 
of  skins  which  her  brothers  had  brought  home, 
and  took  over  her  arm,  since  the  day  was  frosty, 
a  long  tippet  of  otter  which  she  could  wind  round 
her  throat,  if  need  be,  and  came  down  all  equipped 
for  her  wedding- journey. 

In  front  of  the  Hautville  house  stood  waiting  a 
smart  chaise  with  a  fine  young  horse  in  the  shafts, 
and  the  bride  and  groom  came  out  and  got  in  and 
drove  away.  But  first,  while  Burr  was  gather 
ing  up  the  reins,  David  Hautville's  hoarse  voice 
through  the  open  door  besought  him  to  wait,  and 
presently  the  old  man  came  striding  forth  with 
the  skin  of  a  mighty  bear  which  he  had  slain  sin 
gle-handed  years  ago,  and  which  had  been  his 
chiefest  treasure  next  to  his  viol  ever  since,  kept 
beside  his  bed,  whence  no  one  dared  remove  it. 
He  flung  it  up  into  the  chaise,  and  tucked  it  well 
in  over  his  daughter's  knees.  "  Oh,  father,  I 
will  not  take  your  bearskin  I"  Madelon  cried,  and 

23 


354  MADELON 

the  tears  came  into  her  eyes,  for  this  touched 
her  more  than  anything ;  and  the  memory  of 
aught  that  she  had  ever  lacked  in  tenderness 
towards  them  all  seemed  to  smite  her  in  the 

face. 

"'Tis  a  sharp  day  for  the  time  of  year,  and 
there'll  be  a  frost  to-night,"  was  all  old  David 
Hantville  said,  and  strode  back  into  the  house, 
keeping  his  face  well  turned  away. 

The  horse  that  Burr  drove  was  a  young  ani 
mal  that  he  had  purchased  lately.  It  was  of  the 
stock  of  the  Morgans,  and  stood  with  the  faith 
fulness  of  a  sentinel;  but  when  the  signal  to 
start  was  given  stepped  out  proudly  as  if  to  a 
battle  charge,  with  eager  tossings  of  heavy  mane 
and  high  flings  of  knees  and  hoofs ;  and  yet,  when 
fairly  on  the  road,  never  broke  the  swift  precision 
of  his  course. 

"  He's  got  a  fine  horse  there,"  Abner  Hautville 
said,  in  his  emphatic  bass,  as  he  watched  them  out 
of  sight ;  and  he  further  declared  that  for  his 
part  he  would  be  willing  to  trade  the  roan  for 
him.  Then  the  boy  Eichard  turned  upon  him, 
with  a  cry  that  was  something  between  a  sob 
and  an  oath :  "Yes,  trade  off  the  roan  and  all 
we've  got  left  to  him,  I'll  warrant  ye  will  I"  he 
choked  out.  Then  he  was  gone,  pelting  off  mad 
ly  across  the  fields,  with  his  bold  and  innocent 
young  heart,  that  had  as  yet  known  no  fiercer  pas 
sion  than  this  for  his  sister,  all  aflame  with  grief 


MADELON  355 

and  angry  jealousy,  as  of  one  who  sees  his  best 
haled  off  before  his  eyes,  and  still  with  awed 
submission  to  a  power  which  he  recognizes  and 
understands  not. 


CHAPTER   XXIX 

As"  Burr  and  Madelon,  setting  forth  on  their 
wedding- journey,  drove  down  the  village  street, 
they  met  many  whom  they  knew ;  and  had  it  not 
been  for  their  self-engrossment  they  could  not 
have  failed  to  notice  and  wonder  at  the  cold  greet 
ings  they  received,  and  the  many  averted  faces 
which  greeted  them  not  at  all. 

Indeed,  Burr  did  remark  upon  it  when  they  met 
Daniel  Plympton,  who  nodded  with  a  surly  air 
and  turned  his  fat  and  pleasant  countenance  res 
olutely  away,  with  a  gesture  that  seemed  to  belie 
his  own  identity. 

"What's  come  across  Dan'l  ?"  he  said,  laugh 
ing,  for  at  that  time  coldness  from  the  outside 
world  seemed  but  provocative  of  amusement. 
Then  he  sang  out  gayly  to  the  Morgan  horse,  and 
they  flew  along  the  road,  under  the  outreaching 
branches,  red  and  gold  and  russet,  past  old  land 
marks  and  houses  and  more  familiar  faces  which 
bore  strange  looks  towards  them,  and  yet  surprised 
them  not,  for  a  strangeness  was  over  all  the  old 
sights  and  ways  for  them  both.  To  the  bride  and 
groom,  riding  through  the  village  where  they  had 


MADELON  357 

been  born  and  bred,  and  whence  all  their  earthly 
imaginations  had  sprung,  came  an  experience  like 
a  resurrection.  They  saw  it  all :  the  paths  their 
feet  had  trodden,  the  doors  they  had  entered,  the 
friends  they  had  known  from  childhood,  but  all 
seemed  no  longer  the  same,  since  their  own  con 
ditions  of  life  had  changed;  and  change  in  one's 
self  is  the  vital  spring  of  change  in'  all  besides. 

As  they  rode  along  old  associations  lost  their 
holds  over  them  in  their  new  world,  which  was 
the  outcome  of  the  old,  and  would  in  its  turn 
wax  old  again.  Burr  looked  at  his  own  home, 
as  he  went  by,  as  if  he  had  never  seen  it ;  even 
his  memory  of  himself  and  his  childhood  days 
was  dim,  and  he  and  Madelon,  glancing  at 
Lot's  windows  and  having  his  image  forced,  as  it 
were,  upon  their  consciousness,  regarded  it  as 
they  might  have  done  an  actor  in  some  old 
drama  of  history  in  which  they  also  had  taken 
part,  but  which  had  long  since  passed  off  the 
stage. 

They  left  the  house  behind  and  were  swiftly 
out  of  sight,  over  the  crest  of  a  long  hill  with  a 
great  spread  of  golden  maple  branches  closing 
after  them  like  a  curtain,  and  neither  of  them 
dreamed  in  what  straits  Lot  Gordon  lay  behind 
his  vacant  windows — and  all  through  this  love 
and  bliss  and  paradise  of  theirs. 

The  smart  chaise  and  the  Morgan  horse  had 
scarcely  disappeared  before  Margaret  Bean  came 


358  MADELON 

hurriedly  out  of  Lot  Gordon's  house  and  went 
rattling  in  her  starched  draperies  towards  the  vil 
lage  ;  and  soon  after  that  the  doctor  was  seen 
driving  thither  furiously  in  his  tilting  sulky, 
while  windows  were  opened  and  spying  heads 
thrust  out  all  along  his  course. 

An  hour  later  everybody  knew  that  Lot  Gor 
don,  some  said  by  a  fall  in  climbing  over  a  stone 
wall,  some  said  by  a  severe  fit  of  coughing,  had 
caused  his  old  wound  to  beset  him  again  with 
danger  of  his  life.  That  night,  indeed,  the  tide 
of  rancorous  gossip  swelled  high.  The  spirit 
of  persecution  and  righteous  retribution  which 
finds  easy  birth  in  New  England  villages  was  fast 
getting  to  itself  feet  and  hands  and  tongue  and 
a  whole  body  of  active  powers. 

A  stormy  bridal  night  had  Burr  and  Madelon 
known  had  the}7  been  at  home ;  and  had  Lot 
Gordon  died  during  the  next  three  days,  in 
which  he  lay  in  imminent  danger,  there  had 
been  fleet  horses  on  the  track  of  the  swift  Mor 
gan,  and  the  wedding- journey  had  come  to  a 
close. 

Yet  the  Hautville  men  heard  nothing  of  the 
bitterness  which  was  gathering  towards  Madelon 
and  Burr,  for  people,  fearing  their  fierce  tem 
pers,  hesitated  until  the  time  was  come  to  dis 
close  it  to  them.  Even  old  Luke  Basset  dared 
not  carry  neAVS  to  them.  The  tongues  were 
always  hushed  when  one  of  them  drew  near  ; 


MADELOS  359 

and  as  for  Eugene,  who,  having  a  wife,  might 
perhaps  have  discovered  it,  he  and  Dorothy  took 
the  stage  coach  for  Boston  the  day  after  the 
marriage,  and  were  paying  a  visit  at  Dorothy's 
aunt's  there. 

After  three  days  Lot  Gordon  was  reported  to 
be  no  longer  hovering  between  life  and  death, 
and  yet  it  was  said  on  good  authority,  through 
the  doctor's  wife  in  fact,  that  he  might  at  any 
time,  by  an  injudicious  step  or  a  harder  cough- 
ing-spell,  end  his  life  through  the  opening  of 
that  old  wound,  for  which  they  held  either 
Madelon  or  Burr,  or  perhaps  both,  accountable ; 
and  public  indignation  swelled  higher  and 
higher.  It  was  resolved  that  when  the  bridal 
couple  returned  a  constant  espionage  should  be 
kept  upon  them,  and  in  case  of  Lot's  death 
active  measures  should  be  taken. 

"We  ain't  goin'  to  have  a  man  murdered  to 
death  in  our  midst  by  no  French  and  Injuns 
nowadays  and  let  it  slide/'  proclaimed  a  fiery 
spirit  in  the  store  one  night.  Then  when  the 
door  opened  and  Abner  Hautville,  dark  and 
warlike  in  his  carriage  as  any  fighting  chief, 
appeared,  the  man  asked  ostentatiously  for  a 
"quart  of  m'lasses,  and  not  so  black  and  gritty 
as  the  last  was  nuther,"  transferring  the  rancor 
in  his  tone  to  an  inoffensive  object  with  Machia 
vellian  policy. 

However,  Margaret  Bean's  husband  was  in  the 


360  MADELON 

store  that  night,  and  heard  it  all.  He  had  been 
sent  thither  for  a  half-pound  of  ginger,  and  told 
not  to  linger  ;  but  linger  he  did,  disposing  his 
old  bones  with  a  stiff  fling  upon  a  handy  half- 
barrel  and  listening  to  every  word  with  a  shrewd 
sense,  for  which  no  one  would  have  given  him 
credit,  that  he  could  by  repetition  and  enlarge 
ment,  if  necessary,  appease  his  wife's  wrath  at 
his  delay.  The  workings  of  the  human  mind 
towards  selfish  ends  even  in  the  simplest  organ 
ization  have  an  art  beyond  all  mechanism,  and 
can  astonish  the  wisest  when  revealed. 

Nobody  who  saw  old  man  Bean  pottering 
homeward  that  night,  his  back  bent  with  age, 
yet  moving  with  a  childlike  shuffle,  carrying  his 
parcel  of  ginger  with  tight  clutch  lest  he  drop 
it,  like  one  whose  weariness  of  body  must  make 
up  for  feebleness  of  mind,  dreamed  what  a  dip 
lomat  he  was  in  his  humble  walk  of  life,  and 
what  an  adept  still  in  doubles  and  turns  and 
twists  and  dodges  towards  his  own  petty  ends. 

A  sweeter  morsel  than  any  sugar  old  man 
Bean,  overborne  with  a  sense  of  naughtiness  and 
disobedience,  like  a  child,  carried  home  to  his 
wife  to  quiet  her  chiding  tongue. 

Hardly  had  he  entered  the  door  when  he 
heard  afar  the  swift  rattle  of  her  starched  skirts, 
like  a  very  warning  note  of  hostility,  and  cut 
in  ahead  of  her  reproaches  with  a  triumphant 
manner. 


MADELON  361 

f '  Pretty  doin's  there's  goin'  to  be,"  said  he ; 
"  never  was  nothing  like  it  in  this  town.  That's 
what  I  stayed  for.  Thought  ye'd  orter  know." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  asked  Margaret  Bean, 
staring. 

"Ye  know  what  the  doctor  says  about  Mm,?" 
The  old  man  jerked  his  head  towards  the  door. 

Margaret  nodded. 

se  Well,  they're  goin'  to  have  'em  both  hung  for 
murder  the  minute  he  draws  his  last  breath." 

"  Can't  till  they're  tried,"  said  Margaret,  with 
a  sniff  of  scorn  at  her  husband's  lack  of  legal 
knowledge. 

' '  Well,  they're  goin'  to  clap  'em  into  jail  the 
minute  they  git  home,  an'  keep  'em  there  till 
they  can  hang  'em,"  persisted  old  man  Bean. 

"  They  ain't." 

"  I  tell  ye  they  are  !" 

Old  man  Bean  had  a  cup  of  tea,  plentifully 
sweetened  with  molasses,  made  from  the  ginger 
which  he  had  purchased,  and  went  to  bed  happy 
and  peaceful,  as  one  who  has  worked  innocently 
and  well  his  small  powers  to  his  own  advantage  ; 
and  soon  after  that  Lot  also  heard  the  news 
which  he  had  brought. 

Margaret  Bean  said  to  herself  that  it  was  her 
duty ;  and  her  duty,  and  a  great  devouring  thirst 
of  curiosity,  overcame  her  natural  fear  of  in 
juring  the  sick  man. 

Lot  Gordon  was  still  in  bed,  but  propped  up 


362  MADELON 

on  pillows,  with  a  candle  on  the  stand  at  his 
side,  reading  one  of  his  leather-covered  books. 
Margaret  Bean  shrank  back  when  she  had  deliv 
ered  herself  of  her  news,  for  the  flash  in  Lot's 
eyes  was  like  lightning  ;  and  she  waited  in  trem 
bling  certainty  as  for  thunder. 

"  I  tell  ye  'tis  a  lie  !"  cried  Lot  Gordon.  "  Do 
ye  hear,  'tis  a  lie  !  Go  yourself  and  tell  them  so 
from  me.  The  wound  has  naught  to  do  with 
this.  It  was  naught  but  a  scratch,  for  I  had  not 
courage  enough  to  strike  deep,  much  as  I  wanted 
to  be  quit  of  the  world  and  the  fools  in  it.  Go 
you  down  to  the  store  and  tell  the  gossips  that 
have  no  affairs  of  their  own,  and  must  needs  pry 
on  their  neighbors  so.  Dare  any  one  of  them  to 
turn  knife  on  his  own  flesh  for  the  first  time  and 
strike  deeper !  The  next  time  I'll  do  better. 
Tell  them  so  !  The  fools  !  Sodom  and  Gomor 
rah,  and  fire  from  Heaven  for  wickedness  ! 
Lord,  why  not  fire  from  Heaven  for  damned 
foolishness,  that  does  more  harm  to  the  world 
than  the  shattering  of  all  the  commandments 
into  stone-dust  !" 

"  I  felt  that  'twas  my  duty  to  let  you  know, 
sir,"  stammered  Margaret  Bean,  backing  farther 
and  farther  away  from  him. 

"Tell  the  fools  that  I  say,  and  I'll  swear  to  it, 
and  so  will  the  doctor  swear,  that  'twas  not  the 
wound  that  has  been  my  ailment,  but  my  cursed 
lungs  ;  but  if  'twas  'twould  be  naught  to  them, 


MADELON"  363 

for  I  struck  the  blow  myself.  I  tell  you  that 
neither  the  one  nor  the  other  of  them  struck  the 
blow — it  was  I.  Do  you  hear  ?  It  was  I  \" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Margaret  Bean,  trembling, 
her  eyes  big,  her  white  face  elongated  in  her 
starched  cap  ruffles. 

"Go  to  bed  I"  said  Lot,  savagely,  and  the  old 
woman  scuttled  out,  glad  to  be  gone. 

Never  before  had  Lot  addressed  her  so.  "I 
believe  he  did  do  it  himself,"  she  told  her  hus 
band  next  morning,  for  she  could  not  wake  him  to 
intelligence  that  night;  "he's  jest  ugly  'nough 
to." 

The  next  day  at  early  dawn  Lot's  bell,  which 
was  kept  on  his  stand  beside  the  bed,  in  case  he 
should  be  worse  in  the  night  and  need  assistance, 
tinkled  sharply. 

"  Send  your  husband  after  the  doctor,"  Lot 
ordered,  peremptorily,  when  Margaret  answered 
it ;  and  presently  early  risers  saw  old  man  Bean 
advancing  in  a  rapid  shuffle  towards  the  doc 
tor's,  and  soon  the  doctor  himself  whirled  past, 
his  back  bent  to  the  rapid  motion  of  his  gig. 
The  report  that  Lot  Gordon  was  worse  went 
through  the  village  like  wildfire.  A  crowd  col 
lected  in  the  store  as  soon  as  the  shutters  were 
down ;  there  was  a  knot  of  men  before  the  law 
yer's  office  waiting  for  him  to  come  ;  and  several 
hot-headed  young  fellows  pressed  into  the  stable 
and  urged  upon  Silas  Beers  that  he  should  keep 


364  MADELON" 

the  old  white  racer  in  readiness  for  an  emer 
gency  that  day,  and  also  several  others  which,  if 
not  as  fleet,  had  good  staying  powers. 

When  the  doctor  entered  Lot  Gordon's  cham 
ber  Margaret  Bean  followed,  tremblingly  offi 
cious,  in  his  wake,  with  a  bowl  and  spoon  in 
hand. 

"I  want  to  see  the  doctor  alone/'  said  Lot; 
and  the  old  woman  retreated  before  his  coldly 
imperious  order.  "Stay  out  in  the  kitchen," 
ordered  Lot,  further,  "and  don't  come  through 
the  entry  ;  I  shall  hear  you  if  you  do. " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  replied  Margaret  Bean,  and  obeyed, 
nor  dared  listen  at  the  door,  as  was  her  wont, 
so  terrified  was  she  lest  Lot  could  indeed  hear 
and  had  heard  in  times  past. 

The  doctor,  redolent  of  herbs  and  drugs,  set 
his  medicine-chest  on  the  floor,  and  advanced 
upon  Lot,  who  waved  him  back  with  a  half- 
laugh. 

"  Lord,  let's  have  none  of  that  nonsense  this 
morning,"  he  said.  "  Sit  down  ;  I  want  to  talk 
to  you." 

The  doctor  was  gray  and  unshaven  and  hag 
gard  as  ever,  from  a  midnight  vigil,  the  crumbs 
of  his  hasty  breakfast  were  011  his  waistcoat ;  his 
eyes  were  bright  as  steel  under  heavy,  frowning 
brows. 

"Are  ye  worse  ?  Has  it  come  on  again  ?"  he 
demanded. 


MADELOK  365 

"No;  sit  down." 

The  doctor  snatched  up  his  medicine-chest 
with  a  surly  exclama'tion. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?"  asked  Lot. 

"Back  to  my  breakfast.  I'll  not  be  called 
out  for  nothing  by  you  or  any  other  man  after 
I've  been  out  all  night.  If  you  want  a  gossip,  get 
the  parson ;  he's  got  time  enough  on  his  hands. 
A  man  don't  have  to  work  so  many  hours  a  day 
saving  souls  as  he  does  saving  bodies." 

Lot  laughed.  "And  neither  souls  nor  bodies 
saved  by  either  of  you,  after  all,"  said  he,  "for 
the  Lord  saves  the  one,  if  he  has  so  ordained  it ; 
and  as  for  the  other,  your  nostrums  only  work 
so  long  as  death  does  not  choose  to  come." 

"Have  it  your  own  way;  save  your  own  soul 
and  your  own  body,  as  ye  please,  for  all  me," 
said  the  doctor,  who  was  adjudged  capable  when 
crossed  of  being  surly  to  a  dying  man ;  and  he 
made  for  the  door. 

"For  God's  sake  stop,"  cried  Lot,  "and  come 
back  here  and  listen !  I  did  not  call  you  for 
nothing.  The  lives  and  deaths  of  more  than 
one  are  at  stake  ;  come  back  here  !" 

The  doctor  clamped  his  medicine-chest  hard 
on  the  floor.  "Be  quick  about  it,  then,"  said 
he,  and  sat  down  in  a  chair  at  Lot's  bedside. 

Lot  fumbled  under  his  pillow  and  produced  a 
folded  paper  which  he  handed  to  the  doctor. 
"  I  want  you  to  sign  this,"  said  he. 


36G  MADELOtf 

The  doctor  scowled  over  the  paper,  got  out 
his  iron-bowed  spectacles,,  adjusted  them,  and 
read  aloud : 

"I,  Justinus  Emmons,  practising  doctor  of 
medicine,  do  hereby  declare  that  the  death  of 
Lot  Gordon  of  Ware  Centre  will,  when  it  takes 
place,  be  due  to  phthisis,  and  phthisis  alone, 
and  not  in  any  degree,  however  small,  to  the 
wound  inflicted  by  himself  some  months  since. 
And,  furthermore,  I  declare  that  his  death  will 
follow  from  the  natural  progress  of  the  disease 
of  phthisis,  which  has  not  in  any  respect  been 
accelerated  by  his  self-inflicted  wound." 

"You  want  me  to  sign  this,  do  you?"  said 
the  doctor. 

"I  will  call  in  Margaret  Bean  and  her  hus 
band  for  witnesses,"  said  Lot. 

"  You  think  I  am  going  to  sign  this  ?" 

"  I  want  it  in  addition  to  the  certificate  of 
the  cause  of  death  which  you  will  have  to  make 
out  after  my  decease.  'Tis  an  unnecessary  for 
mality,  but  I  would  have  it  so,"  Lot  returned. 

The  doctor  dashed  the  paper  on  the  bed.  "If 
you  think  I  am  going  to  subscribe  to  a  lie  for 
you,  or  any  other  man,  you're  mistaken,"  he 
cried.  "It  was  enough  for  me  to  hold  my 
tongue  when  you  made  that  fool  statement  of 
yours  that  wouldn't  have  deceived  a  man  with 
the  brains  of  an  ox." 

"  My  death  will  be  due  to  phthisis ;  my  left 


MADELOX  867 

lung  is  almost  consumed,  and  you  know  it,"  af 
firmed  Lot. 

"And  I  tell  you,"  said  the  doctor,  stoutly, 
"  that  your  death  from  phthisis  might  not  have 
occurred  for  ten  years  to  come.  Does  a  tree  die 
because  half  its  boughs  are  gone  ?  When  you 
die,  you  die  of  that  wound.  The  evil  was  great 
er  than  I  thought  at  the  time.  It  takes  less  to 
kill  a  diseased  man  than  a  sound  one." 

"  Then  my  death  will  be  due  to  my  disease  and 
not  to  my  wound,  if  it  would  not  have  killed  a 
sound  man,"  cried  Lot,  eagerly. 

"  I  tell  you,  your  death  will  be  due  to  that 
wound  that  Madelon  Hautville,  with  maybe  your 
cousin  at  her  back,  gave  you." 

Lot's  face  glared  white  at  the  doctor.  "I 
gave  the  wound  to  myself  !" 

The  doctor  laughed. 

"  I  tell  you,  I  gave  the  wound  myself  !" 

"  Take  your  wound  into  court,  and  see  what 
they  say." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  I'll  give  any  man  who  will  stab  himself  in 
just  the  same  place,  with  the  knife  held  in  just 
the  same  way,  every  dollar  I  have  in  the  world." 

"  You  can't  prove  it." 

"  I  can  prove  it." 

"  I  can  do  away  with  your  proof,"  said  Lot,  in 
a  strange  voice.  The  doctor  looked  at  him 
sharply. 


368  MADELON 

"  Then  you  will  not  sign  this  paper  ?"  Lot 
said,  presently. 

"No,  I  will  not  ;  and  I  tell  you,  once  for  all, 
when  you  die  I  make  out  my  certificate  as  it 
should  be." 

"  How  ?" 

"  By  a  wound  from  a  knife  or  other  sharp  in 
strument,  inflicted  by  a  person  or  persons  un 
known." 

Lot's  face,  towards  the  doctor,  looked  as  if 
death  had  already  struck  it ;  but  he  spoke  firm 
ly.  "  How  long  will  it  be,  first  ?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  know." 

"  Approximate." 

"A  false  step  may  do  it." 

"I  can  lie  still!" 

"A  coughing-spell  may  do  it." 

"I  will  not  cough  !" 

"More  than  that,  a  thought  may  do  it,  if  it 
stirs  your  heart  too  much.  I  tell  you  as  I  should 
want  to  be  told  myself  :  your  life  hangs  by  a 
thread." 

"Sometimes  a  thread  does  not  break,"  Lot 
said,  with  a  meditative  light  in  his  eyes. 

"That's  true  enough." 

"This  may  not." 

"True  enough." 

"How  long  will  you  give  it  to  last,  before  you 
sign  this  paper  ?" 

"A  year." 


MADELCW  369 

"Then  you  will  sign  this  if  I  live  a  year  from 
to-day?" 

"No,  I  will  not  sign  it,  for  you  may  have  an 
other  stab  on  New-year's  day,  if  you  seem  likely 
to  live  so  long/'  said  the  doctor,  shortly ;  "but  I 
will  promise  you  not  to  make  out  your  certificate 
of  death  from  this  wound." 

"How  great  a  chance  of  life  have  I  ?"  Lot 
asked,  hoarsely,  after  a  minute's  pause. 

"  Small." 

"  Yet  there  is  one  ?" 

"Yes." 

The  doctor  opened  his  chest,  and  began  select 
ing  some  bottles. 

"I  want  no  more  of  your  nostrums,"  said  Lot. 

"'Very  well,"  said  the  doctor,  replacing  the 
bottles.  "  I  would  not  make  out  that  certificate 
sooner  than  necessary — that  is  all." 

"Dose  death  and  go  to  the  root  of  the  matter," 
said  Lot.  "  Then  you  won't  sign  this  paper  ?" 

"No,"  replied  the  doctor,  with  a  great  em 
phasis  of  negation. 

"There  is  one  thing  you  will  do," said  he. 

"What  ?"  asked  the  doctor,  suspiciously. 

"  If  I  die  within  a  year,  to  your  truest  belief, 
from  any  other  cause  than  this  wound  now  in 
my  side  you  will  say  so." 

"  Of  course  I  will  do  that,"  replied  the  doctor, 
staring  at  him. 

"And  you  will  in  such  a  case  let  this  wound 

'24 


370  MADELOX 

drop  into  oblivion,  yon  will  hold  your  peace  con 
cerning  it,  '  forever  after  ?' " 

"Of  course  I  will." 

"Swear  to  it?" 

"I  swear.     But  what  in — " 

Lot  smiled.  "Some  time,  when  you  have  lei 
sure,  write  a  treatise  on  '  Who  killed  the  man  ?' " 
he  said,  as  if  to  turn  the  subject,  "  and  keep 
going  back  to  first  causes.  You'll  find  startling 
results ;  you  may  decide  that  'twas  your  duty  to 
sign  the  paper." 

"  I  have  no  time  for  treatises,"  returned  the 
doctor,  gruffly. 

"You  may  trace  the  killing  back  to  yourself." 

"Fm  not  afraid  of  it.     Good-day." 

"  Shake  hands  with  me,  doctor,"  pleaded  Lot, 
with  a  curious  change  of  tone,  "  to  show  you 
bear  no  grudge  for  the  breakfast  you  lost." 

The  doctor  stared  a  second,  then  went  up  to 
him  with  extended  hand,  looking  at  him  seri 
ously.  He  thought  Lot's  illness  had  begun  to 
affect  his  mind. 

"Keep  yourself  quiet,  and  you  may  outlive 
the  best  of  us,"  he  said,  soothingly,  as  if  to  a 
child  or  a  woman,  shook  Lot's  lean  hand  kindly, 
repeated  his  good-day,  and  was  gone. 

Lot  waited  until  he  heard  the  outer  door  close. 
Then  he  tinkled  his  bell  for  Margaret  Bean. 
"  When  are  they  coming  home  ?"  he  asked, 
shortly,  when  she  stood  beside  him. 


MADELOK  371 

"His  mother  said  she  was  expectin'  of  'em 
Saturday." 

"  Get  my  clothes  out  of  the  closet,  will  you," 
said  Lot. 

"  You  ain't  a-goin'  to  get  up  ?" 

i(  Yes,  Fm  better  ;  get  the  clothes." 

When  Margaret  Bean  had  laid  the  clothes  out 
ready  for  him,  and  was  gone,  Lot  laid  still  a  mo 
ment,  reflecting,  with  his  eyes  on  the  ceiling. 
He  wished  to  cough,  but  with  an  effort  he  checked 
it,  gasping  once  or  twice.  "Saturday,"  he  said, 
aloud.  "To-day  is  Wednesday  —  three  days. 
Can  I  wait  ?"  He  paused  ;  then  as  if  answering 
another  self,  he  said,  "  No  ;  I  could  die  a  thou 
sand  deaths  in  that  time.  I  can't  wait." 

Lot  Gordon  got  up,  moving  by  inches,  with  in 
finite  care  and  pains,  dressed  himself,  crawled 
out  of  his  bedroom  into  his  library,  which  was 
adjoining,  and  sat  down  at  his  desk.  Margaret 
Bean  came  timidly  to  the  door,  and  inquired  if 
he  did  not  want  some  breakfast.  She  had  to  re 
peat  her  query  three  times,  he  was  writing  so 
busily,  and  then  he  answered  her  "no"  as  if  his 
thoughts  were  elsewhere.  The  old  woman  hun 
grily  eyed  the  paper  upon  which  he  was  scrib 
bling,  and  went  away  with  lingering  backward 
glances. 

Lot  Gordon,  bending  painfully  over  his  desk, 
using  his  quill  pen,  with  wary  motions  of  hand 
and  wrist  alone,  that  he  might  not  jar  his  wound- 


372  MADELON 

ed  side,  wrote  a  letter  to  the  bride  upon  her  wed 
ding-journey. 

" MADELON,"  wrote  Lot,  "I  pray  you  to  pardon  what  I 
have  done,  and  what  I  am  about  to  do.  The  danger  of 
blood-guiltiness  and  death  have  I  brought  upon  you,  and 
I  now  save  you  in  the  only  way  I  know.  I  pray  you, 
when  you  read  this,  and  know  what  I  have  done,  that  you 
think  of  me  with  what  charity  you  may,  and  that  the  love 
which  caused  the  deed  may  be  its  saving  grace." 

Lot  sat  looking  at  what  he  had  written  for  a 
moment,,  then  tore  it  up,  and  wrote  again  : 

"MADELON, —Alive  I  claimed  nothing,  dead  I  claim 
your  memory,  for  the  sake  of  the  love  for  which  I  died." 

And,  after  a  moment,  tore  up  that  also. 
And  then  he  wrote  again,  with  quivering  lips, 
yet  breathing  guardedly  : 

"  MADELON, — The  love  that  was  set  betwixt  man  and 
woman  that  the  race  might  not  die  is  one  love,  but  there 
is  another.  That  have  I  found  and  found  through  you, 
and  bless  you  for  it,  though  death  be  needful  to  its  keep 
ing.  There  is  another  birth  than  that  of  the  flesh,  through 
this  so  great  love,  which  can  upon  itself  beget  immortality 
of  love  unto  the  understanding  of  all  which  is  above.  A 
greater  end  of  love  than  the  life  of  worlds  there  is,  which 
is  love  itself.  That  end  have  I  attained  through  this  great 
love  in  my  own  soul  which  you  have  shown  me,  else 
should  I  have  never  known  it  there,  and  died  so,  having 
lived  to  myself  alone,  and  been  no  true  lover. 

' '  LOT  GOTIPON.  " 


MADELOK  373 

And  hesitated,  reading  it  over ;  but  at  length 
tore  that  into  shreds,  and  wrote  yet  again  : 

"  DEAR  CHILD, — I  pray  you  when  I  am  gone  that  you 
wear  the  pretty  gowns  and  the  trinkets  which  I  offered 
you  once,  for  I  would  fain  give  you  for  your  happiness 
more  than  my  poor  life." 

Tears  of  self  -  pity  fell  from  Lot's  eyes  as  he 
wrote  the  last ;  then  he  laughed  scornfully  at 
himself,  and  tore  that  up.  "Self  dies  hard," 
said  he. 

He  wrote  no  more  to  Madelon,  but  now  to 
Burr : 

"DEAR  COUSIN,"  he  wrote,  "I  have  this  day  discovered 
that  my  life  is  in  imminent  danger  from  the  wound.  If 
my  death  comes  in  that  wise  there  will  be  trouble,  I  take 
the  only  way  to  save  her,  but  I  pray  you,  upon  your 
honor,  that  you  do  not  let  her  know,  for  even  your  love 
cannot  sweeten  her  life  fully  for  her  if  she  knows  ;  for 
love  has  taught  me  the  heart  of  this  woman.  To  you 
alone,  for  the  sake  of  the  honor  of  our  blood,  which  has 
never  been  shed  by  our  own  hands  before,  I  disclose  this  ; 
for  I  would  be  set  right  in  the  eyes  of  one  man  when  I  am 
dead." 

Lot  G  ordon  pondered  long  over  that ;  but  final 
ly  tore  up  that  as  he  had  torn  the  others,  and 
gathered  up  all  the  fragments  and  crawled  across 
the  room  with  them,  and  threw  them  on  the 
hearthfire. 


374  MADELON 

Then,  leaving  them  blazing  there,  he  returned 
to  his  desk,  and  wrote  : 

' '  To  all  whom  it  may  concern,  or  to  all  whom  in  their  own 

estimation  it  may  concern,  this: 

"I,  Lot  Gordon,  of  Ware  Centre,  being  weary  of  life, 
which  is  a  dream,  have  resolved  to  force  the  waking.  Hav 
ing  once  before  attempted  in  vain  to  take  my  life,  I  now 
attempt  it  again,  and  this  time  not  in  vain,  for  my  hand 
lias  grown  skilful  with  practice.  I  take  my  life  because 
of  no  wrong  done  me  by  man  or  woman,  nor  because 
of  any  vain  love;  I  take  it  solely  because  my  days  upon 
this  earth  being  numbered  through  my  distress  of  the 
lungs,  I  have  not  the  courage  to  see  death  approach  by 
inches,  and  prefer  to  meet  him  at  one  bound.  I  have  lived 
unto  myself,  with  no  man  accountable,  and  I  die  unto 
myself,  with  no  man  accountable;  and  this  is  the  truth 
with  my  last  breath. 

'LOT  GORDON." 

This  last  Lot  folded  neatly  and  addressed  it 
"To  my  fellow-townsmen/''  and  laid  it  in  a 
conspicuous  place  on  his  desk,  and  then  wrote  on 
another  sheet  and  put  that  in  his  pocket.  Then 
he  opened  a  drawer  of  the  desk,  and  took  out  all 
the  trinkets  which  he  had  offered  Madelon,  in 
their  pretty  cases,  and  with  them  in  his  hands 
crept  out  of  the  room,  and  up-stairs,  into  the 
chamber  which  he  had  caused  to  be  decked  out 
so  newly  and  grandly  when  he  had  thought  to 
marry  her.  There  was  a  great  carven  chest  in 
a  corner  of  the  room,  which  Lot  unlocked,  and 


MADELON  375 

took  from  thence  all  those  rich  fabrics  which  he 
had  bought  for  Madelon.  And  then  he  laid  them 
all — the  silken  stuffs  and  plumes  and  fine  linens 
and  jewels — out  on  the  great  bed,  under  the  grand 
canopy,  and  placed  on  the  top  the  sheet  of  paper 
on  which  he  had  last  written,  "  For  Madelon 
Gordon." 

Margaret  Bean  had  listened  when  Lot  climbed 
the  stairs.  She  heard  him  when  he  came  down 
again,  entered  his  library,  and  shut  the  door.  She 
waited  a  long  time.  For  some  reason  which  she 
did  not  herself  know  she  felt  cold  with  terror. 
She  would  not  let  her  husband  leave  her  alone 
in  the  kitchen  for  a  moment.  At  last,  when  it 
was  nearly  noon,  she  bade  him  keep  close  at  her 
heels,  and  went  to  the  library  door  and  knocked, 
and  when  no  answer  came,  knocked  again  and 
again  and  again,  louder  and  louder  and  louder. 
Then  she  made  her  husband  open  the  door,  with 
fierce  urgings,  and  peered  around  his  shoulder 
into  the  room.  Then  she  gave  one  great  shriek, 
and  caught  the  old  man  by  the  arm  with  a  fran 
tic  clutch,  and  was  out  of  the  house  with  him 
and  screaming  up  the  street. 

Saturday  morning  Burr  and  Madelon  came 
riding  into  the  village.  As  they  passed  up  the 
street  everybody  whom  they  met  saluted  them 
with  a  manner  which  had  in  it  something  respect 
ful,  apologetic,  and  solemn.  The  lovers  felt  no 
wonder  at  such  return  of  cordiality,  seeing  in 


376  MADELOST 

everything  but  reflections  of  their  own  moods, 
and  knew  not  what  it  meant  until  they  reached 
home. 

Then  Elvira  Gordon,  meeting  them  at  the  door, 
told  them  that  Lot  was  dead  by  his  own  hand,  by 
a  knife-thrust  which  crossed  the  old  wound  in  his 
side  ;  and  she  dwelt  upon  the  reason  for  his  deed  : 
that  he  had  been  slowly  dying  from  the  disease 
of  his  lungs,  and  had  not  the  courage  to  die  by 
inches,  which  reason  now  all  the  town  believed, 
since  the  doctor  had  said  no  word  in  contradic 
tion,  and  never  would,  being  mindful  of  his  oath. 

Madelon  listened,  white  and  still,  saying  not  a 
word ;  and  she  said  nothing  when,  up  in  their 
chamber,  whither  she  went  to  take  off  her  bonnet, 
Burr,  who  had  followed,  took  her  in  his  arms, 
and  they  stood  together,  looking  at  each  other 
and  trembling.  Knowing  not,  and  never  to  know, 
the  whole  which  he  had  done  for  them,  they  yet 
knew  enough.  Suddenly,  in  the  light  of  their 
own  love  another  greater  showed  revealed  ;  and 
each  exalted  the  image  of  Lot  Gordon  above  the 
other,  and  was  acquaint  with  the  spirit  of  what 
he  had  written  and  kept  back ;  for  love  that  so 
outspeeds  self  and  death  needs  no  speech  nor 
written  sign  to  prove  its  being. 


THE  END 


BY  CONSTANCE   F.  WOOLSON 


DOROTHY,  and  Other  Italian  Stories.     Illustrated.     16mo, 

Cloth,  Ornamental,  $1  25. 
THE  FRONT  YARD,  and  Other  Italian  Stories.    Illustrated. 

16mo,  Cloth,  Ornamental,  $1  25. 
HORACE  CHASE.     A  Novel.      16mo,  Cloth,  Ornamental, 

$1  25. 
JUPITER  LIGHTS.     A  Novel.     ICmo,  Cloth,  Ornamental, 

dM    o;c 
fl   ^0. 

EAST    ANGELS.     A  Novel.      16mo,   Cloth,   Ornamental, 

$1  25. 
ANNE.    A  Novel.    Illustrated.    16mo,  Cloth,  Ornamental, 

$1  25. 

FOR  THE  MAJOR.      A  Novelette.      16mo,  Cloth,  Orna 
mental,  $1  00. 
CASTLE    NOWHERE.      Lake -Country   Sketches.      16mo, 

Cloth,  Ornamental,  $1  00. 
RODMAN  THE  KEEPER.    Southern  Sketches.   16mo,  Cloth, 

Ornamental,  $1  00. 

Characterization  is  Miss  Woolson's  forte.  Her  men  and  women  are 
not  mere  puppets,  but  original,  breathing,  and  finely  contrasted  creations. 
— Chicago  Tribune. 

Miss  Woolson  is  one  of  the  few  novelists  of  the  day  who  know  how  to 
make  conversation,  how  to  individualize  the  speakers,  how  to  exclude 
rabid  realism  without  falling  into  literary  formality. — N.  Y  Tribune. 

For  tenderness  and  purity  of  thought,  for  exquisitely  delicate  sketch 
ing  of  characters,  Miss  Woolson  is  unexcelled  among  writers  of  fiction.— 
New  Orleans  Picayune. 

MENTONE,  CAIRO,  AND  CORFU.    Illustrated.     Post  8vo, 

Cloth,  Ornamental,  $1  75 

For  swiftly  graphic  stroke,  for  delicacy  of  appreciative  coloring,  and 
for  sentimental  suggestiveness,  it  would  be  hard  to  rival  Miss  Woolson's 
sketches.  —  Watchman,  Boston. 

To  the  accuracy  of  a  guide-book  it  adds  the  charm  of  a  cultured  and 
appreciative  vision.—  Philadelphia  Ledger. 


PUBLISHED  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK 

8Sf°  The  above  works  are  for  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  will  be  sent  by  the 
publishers,  postage  prepaid,  on  receipt  of  the  price. 


BY  CHARLES  DUDLEY  WARNER 


THE  RELATION  OF  LITERATURE  TO  LIFE.  Post 
8vo,  Cloth,  Ornamental,  Uncut  Edges  and  Gilt 
Top,  $1  50.  (In  "Harper's  Contemporary 
Essayists.") 

THE  GOLDEN  HOUSE.  Illustrated  by  W.  T.  SMED- 
LEY.  Post  8vo,  Ornamental  Half  Leather,  Un 
cut  Edges  and  Gilt  Top,  $2  00. 

A  LITTLE  JOURNEY  IN  THE  WORLD.  A  Novel. 
Post  8vo,  Half  Leather,  Uncut  Edges  and  Gilt 
Top,  $1  50;  Paper,  75  cents. 

THEIR  PILGRIMAGE.  Illustrated  by  C.  S.  REIN- 
HART.  Post  8vo,  Half  Leather,  Uncut  Edges 
and  Gilt  Top,  $2  00. 

STUDIES  IN  THE  SOUTH  AND  WEST,  with  Comments 
on  Canada.  Post  8vro,  Half  Leather,  Uncut 
Edges  and  Gilt  Top,  $1  75. 

OUR  ITALY.  Illustrated.  8vo,  Cloth,  Ornamental, 
Uncut  Edges  and  Gilt  Top,  $2  50. 

As  WE  Go.  With  Portrait  and  Illustrations. 
16mo,  Cloth,  Ornamental,  $1  00.  (In  "Har 
per's  American  Essayists.") 

As  WE  WERE  SAYING.  With  Portrait  and  Illus 
trations.  16mo,  Cloth,  Ornamental,  $1  00. 
(In  "  Harper's  American  Essayists.") 

THE  W'ORK  OF  AVASHINGTON  IRVING.  With  Por- 
traits.  32mo,  Cloth,  Ornamental,  50  cents. 


PUBLISHED  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NKW  YORK 
jggp-  The  above  works  are  for  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  will  be  sent 
by  the  publishers  by  mail,  postage  prepaid,  on  receipt  of  the  price. 


BY  GEORGE   DU   MAUEIEB 


TRILBY.  A  Novel.  Illustrated  by  the  Author. 
Post  8vo,  Cloth,  Ornamental,  $1  75 ;  Three- 
quarter  Calf,  $3  50  ;  Three-quarter  Crushed  Le 
vant,  $4  50. 

Certainly,  if  it  were  not  for  its  predecessor,  we  should 
assign  to  "Trilby"  a  place  iu  fiction  absolutely  companion- 
less.  ...  It  is  one  of  the  most  unconventional  and  charm 
ing  of  novels. — Saturday  Review,  London. 

It  is  a  charming  story  told  with  exquisite  grace  and  ten 
derness.— TV.  Y.  Tribune. 

Mr.  Du  Maurier  has  written  his  tale  with  such  original 
ity,  unconventionally,  and  eloquence,  such  rollicking  humor 
and  tender  pathos,  and  delightful  play  of  every  lively  fancy, 
all  running  so  briskly  in  exquisite  English  and  with  such  vivid 
dramatic  picturing,  that  it  is  only  comparable  ...  to  the 
freshness  and  beauty  of  a  spring  morning  at  the  end  of  a 
dragging  wintei'.  ...  It  is  a  thoroughly  unique  story. — N.  Y. 
Sun. 

PETER  IBBETSON.  With  an  Introduction  by  his 
Cousin,  Lady  *****  ("Madge  Plunket"). 
Edited  and  Illustrated  by  GEORGE  DU  MAURIER. 
Post  8vo,  Cloth,  Ornamental,  $1  50. 

That  it  is  one  of  the  most  remarkable  books  that  have 
appeared  for  a  long  time  is,  however,  indisputable. — N.  Y. 
Tribune. 

There  are  no  suggestions  of  mediocrity.  The  pathos  is 
true,  the  irony  delicate,  the  satire  severe  when  its  subject  is 
unworthy,  the  comedy  sparkling,  and  the  tragedy,  as  we  have 
said,  inevitable.  One  or  two  more  such  books,  and  the  fame 
of  the  artist  would  be  dim  beside  that  of  the  novelist. — N.  Y. 
Evening  Post. 

PUBLISHED  BY  HARPER   &   BROTHERS,  NKW  YORK. 

B2?"  The  above  works  are  for  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  will  be^  sent  by 
the  publishers,  postage  prepaid,  to  any  part  of  the  United  States, 
Canada,  or  Mexico,  on  receipt  of  the  price. 


BY   RUTH    McENERY    STUART 


SOLOMON  CROW'S  CHRISTMAS  POCKETS,  and  Other 
Tales.  Illustrated.  Post  8vo,  Cloth,  Orna 
mental,  $1  25. 

CARLOTTA'S  INTENDED,  and  Other  Tales.  Illus 
trated.  Post  Svo,  Cloth,  Ornamental,  $1  50. 

They  all  are  simple,  pathetic,  and  full  of  humanity. 
They  are  told  wonderfully  well,  and  the  author  reveals  her 
self  as  exceptionally  skilful  alike  in  studying  and  describing 
racial  and  personal  characteristics.  The  volume  is  one  of  the 
best  and  most  entertaining  of  its  class  which  we  have  read 
in  a  long  time. —  Congregationalist,  Boston. 

Mrs.  Stuart  has  a  way  of  her  own  to  charm  her  readers 
withal.  In  these  stories  she  is  at  her  best;  they  are  all 
good,  very  good. — Independent,  N.  Y. 

A  GOLDEN  WEDDING,  and  Other  Tales.  Illus 
trated.  Post  Svo,  Cloth,  Ornamental,  $1  50. 

The  ten  or  twelve  sketches  in  "A  Golden  Wedding"  re 
veal  a  mingled  web  of  humor  and  pathos  but  rarely  found  in 
the  dialect  writing  of  the  day.  Only  one  thrown  into  inti 
mate  contact  with  the  simple-hearted  black  people — brought 
up  with  them  —  could  have  drawn  their  features  and  their 
natures  in  outlines  so  true,  steadfast,  and  dramatic. —  Critic, 
N.  Y. 

THE  STORY  OF  BABETTE  :  A  Little  Creole  Girl.  Il 
lustrated.  Post  Svo,  Cloth,  Ornamental,  $1  50. 

The  story  is  charming,  and  will  be  read  as  frequently  by 
grown  people  as  by  children. — N.  Y.  Times. 

Not  only  does  "Babette"  thrill  with  interest,  but  it  is 
sweet  and  wholesome  in  its  attractiveness. —  Cincinnati  Com 
mercial-Gazette. 

PUBLISHED  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK. 

J6QP  The  above  works  are  for  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  will  be  sent  by  the 
publishers  by  mail,  postage  prepaid,  on  receipt  of  the  price. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


t  Feb'65BWy 

REC'D  LD 

IANoc;'65-12M 

FEB  2  4  1966  6  i 

J 

JUN5    '664  0KC{f 

SEP  04  iggp 

- 

^v 

unm  jui  o  b  i 

hU 

LD  21A-60m-4,'64 
(E4555slO)476B 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


YB  74534 


U.C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


€031157653 


960440 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


